A=i 

1     m 

3                    rri 

3=1 

3 5 

1  Q 

—1 

6  ^" 

Mrs.  fvloR.' 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MISS    ROSARIO   CURLETT 


H.RKINKEAD 


^f^rm 


T3IIE 


LA  ^AWAIE 


-BT  THE 


ismWo  Mms  o  If  ®mT®:K'. 


N  t-  W    .YORK  ;■. 


liH    ©.  F.  fS^H  ®  ®  16FM    &   ® 


THE 


LADY  OF  LA  GARAYE. 


BY 


THE   HOx\   MRS.   NORTON. 


NEW   YORK: 
ANSON    D.  F.   RANDOLPH   AND    CO. 


Presswork  by  John  Wilson  and  Son, 
University  Press. 


TO 

THE    MOST    NOBLE 

THE   MARQUIS    OF    LANSDOWWE, 

erfji's  Eittle  Poem 

IS    AFFECTIONATELY    AND    GRATEFULLY 
INSCRIBED. 


DEDICATION. 

Feiend  of  old  days,  of  suffering,  stonn,  and  strife, 
Patient  and  kind  through  many  a  wild  appeal ; 

In  the  arena  of  thy  brilliant  life 
Never  too  busy  or  too  cold  to  feel : 

Companion  from  whose  ever-teeming  store 
Of  thought  and  knowledge,  happy  memory  brings 

So  much  of  social  wit  and  sage's  lore, 
Garnered  and  gleaned  by  me  as  precious  things : 

Kinsman  of  him  whose  very  name  soon  grew 
Unreal  as  music  heard  in  pleasant  dreams. 

So  vain  the  hope  my  girlish  fancy  di'ew. 
So  faint  and  far  his  vanished  presence  seems : 

To  thee  I  dedicate  this  record  brief 
Of  foreign  scenes  and  deeds  too  little  known; 


t>  DeHuatioiu 

This  talo  of  noble  souls  wlio  conquered  grief 
By  dint  of  tending  sufferings  not  their  own. 

Thou  hast  Imown  all  my  life :  its  pleasant  hours, 
(How  many  of  them  have  I  owed  to  thee !) 

Its  exercise  of  intellectual  powers, 
With  thoughts  of  fame  and  gladness  not  to  be. 

Thou  knowest  how  Death  forever  dogged  my  way, 
And  how  of  those  I  loved  the  best,  and  those 

Who  loved  and  pitied  me  in  life's  young  day, 
Narrow,  and  narrower  still,  the  circle  grows. 

Thou  knowest — ^for  thou  hast  proved — the  dreary 
shade 

A  first-born's  loss  casts  over  lonely  days ; 
And  gone  is  now  the  pale  fond  smile,  that  made 

In  my  dim  futm-e,  yet,  a  path  of  rays. 

Gone,  the  dear  comfort  of  a  voice  whose  soimd 
Came  like  a  beacon-bell,  heard  clear  above 

The  whirl  of  violent  waters  surging  round ; 
Speaking  to  shipwrecked  ears  of  help  and  love. 


©tUtcation.  7 

The  joy  that  budded  on  my  own  youth's  bloom, 
"When  life  wore  still  a  glory  and  a  gloss, 

Is  hidden  from  me  in  the  silent  tomb ; 
Smiting  with  premature  unnatural  loss, 

So  that  my  very  soul  is  wrung  with  pain. 
Meeting  old  friends  whom  most  I  love  to  see. 

Where  are  the  younger  lives,  since  these  remain  ? 
I  weep  the  eyes  that  should  have  wept  for  me  1 

But  all  the  more  I  cling  to  those  who  speak, 
Like  thee,  in  tones  unaltered  by  my  change ; 

Greeting  my  saddened  glance,  and  faded  cheek. 
With  the  same  welcome  that  seemed  sweet  and 
strange 

In  early  days :  when  I,  of  gifts  made  proud, 
That  could  the  notice  of  such  men  beguile, 

Stood  listening  to  thee  in  some  brilliant  crowd, 
With  the  warm  triumph  of  a  youthful  smile. 

Oh !  little  now  remains  of  all  that  was ! 
Even  for  this  gift  of  linking  measured  words, 


8  DeHuatuin. 

My  heart  oft  questions,  witli  discouraged  pause , 
Does  music  linger  in  the  slackening  chords  ? 

Yet,  fideud,  I  feel  not  that  all  power  is  fled, 
While  offering  to  thee,  for  the  kindly  years, 

The  intangible  gift  of  thought,  whose  silver  thread 
Heaven  keeps  untarnished  by  our  bitterest  tears. 

So,  in  the  brooding  calm  that  follows  woe. 
This  tale  of  La  Gaeate  I  fain  would  tell, — 

As,  when  some  earthly  storm  hath  ceased  to  blow, 
And  the  huge  mounting  sea  hath  ceased  to  swell ; 

After  the  maddening  wrecking  and  the  roar. 
The  wild  high  dash,  the  moaning  sad  retreat. 

Some  cold  slow  wave  creeps  faintly  to  the  shore, 
And  leaves  a  white  shell  at  the  gazer's  feet. 

Take,  then,  the  poor  gift  in  thy  faithful  hand; 

Measure  its  worth  not  merely  hy  my  own. 
But  hold  it  dear  as  gathered  from  the  sand 

Where  so  mucli  wreck  of  youth  and  hope  lies 
strown. 


2?eliitatton.  S 

So,  if  in  years  to  come  my  words  abide — 

Words  of  the  dead  to  stir  some  living  brain — 

When  thoughtfal  readers  lay  my  book  aside, 
Mnsing  on  all  it  tells  of  joy  and  pain, 

Towards   thee,  good   heart,  towards   thee  theii 
thoughts  shall  roam. 
Whose  unforsaking  faith  time  hath  not  riven  ; 
And  to  their  minds  this  jast  award  shall  come, 
'Twas  a  teue  friend  to  whom  such  thanks  were 
given  I 


INTRODUCTION. 


It  is  pleasant  to  me  to  be  able  to  assure  my 
readers  that  the  story  I  have  undertaken  to  versify 
is  in  no  respect  a  fiction.  I  have  added  noth- 
ing to  the  beautiful  and  striking  simplicity  of  the 
events  it  details.  I  have  respected  that  mournful 
"romance  of  real  life"  too  much  to  spoil  its  lessons 
by  any  poetical  licence.  Nothing  is  mine  in  this 
story  but  the  language  in  which  it  is  told.  The  por- 
trait of  the  Countess  de  la  Garaye  is  copied  fi-om 
an  authentic  picture  preserved  in  one  ot  the  re- 
ligious houses  of  Dinan,  in  Brittany,  where  the 
Hospital  of  Incurables,  founded  by  her  and  her 
husband,  still  subsists.  The  ruined  chateau  and  its 
ivy-covered  gateway  are  faithfully  given,  without 
embellishment  or  alteration,  as  they  appeared 
when  I  saw  them  in  the  year  1860.  The  chateau 
is  rapidly  crimabling.  The  memory  of  the  Do  la 
Garayes  is  fresh  in  the  memory   of  the   people. 


1 2  3rn^oinf  tton. 

They  died  witLin  two  years  of  eacli  other,  and 
were  buried  among  their  poor  in  the  district  of 
Taden ;  having,  both  during  their  lives  and  by  vill 
after  death,  contributed  the  greater  part  of  their 
fortune  to  the  wisest  and  most  carefully  conducted 
charities.  Among  the  bequests  left  by  the  Count 
de  la  Garaye,  was  one  especially  interesting  to  this 
country ;  for  he  left  a  large  sum  to  the  prisoners  of 
Eennes  and  Dinan,  consisting  principally  of  English 
oflBcers  and  soldiers,  who  were  suffering  in  these 
crowded  foreign  jails  aU  the  horrors  which  the 
philanthropic  Howard  endeavored  to  reform  in  his 
own  land ;  and  which  at  one  time  caused  a  sort  of 
plague  to  break  out  in  Dinan.  This  humane  be- 
quest is  the  more  remarkable,  as  the  Count  was,  in 
spite  of  the  gentleness  and  generosity  of  his  feel- 
ings towards  imprisoned  foes,  patriotic  enough  to 
insist  on  marching  to  oppose  the  landing  of  tlie 
English  on  the  coast  of  Trance  in  1740,  though  he 
was  then  upwards  of  seventy  years  of  age ! 

He  was  of  noble  family,  being  the  younger  son 
of  Guillauine  Marot,  Count  de  la  Garaye,  Governor 
of  the  town  and  castle  of  Dinan ; — ^that  strong 
fortress  which  Anne  of  Brittany,  in  her  threatened 


3f  ntroSttctioiu  i  ^ 

dominions,  playfully  termed  the  "  key  of  her  cas- 
ket." By  the  death  of  his  elder  brother,  he  be- 
came inheritor  of  the  family  honors,  and  married 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Motte-Piquet,  niece  of  the 
Chevalier  de  la  Motte-Piquet,  who  so  greatly  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  the  American  war.  Olaude- 
Tonssatnt,  Count  de  la  Garaye,  was  a  man  person- 
ally attractive  in  appearance  and  manner,  and 
very  dexterous  ia  fencing  and  feats  of  horseman- 
ship. To  the  plaiative  beauty  of  his  wife's  por- 
trait I  have  scarcely  been  able  to  render  justice, 
even  with  the  advantage  of  its  being  engraved  by 
Mr.  Shaw. 

Those  who  may  desire  to  read  the  narrative  in 
plain  prose,  will  find  a  notice  of  the  Chateau  de  la 
Garaye  in  the  "  Eecherches  sur  Dinan  et  ses  Envi- 
rons," by  Luigi  Odorici,  Curator  of  the  Museum  of 
that  town,  and  in  the  travelling  guide  lately  issued 
by  M.  Peignet,  both  works  published  on  the  spot. 
Allusion  is  also  made  to  the  story,  or  rather  to  the 
beneficent  works  of  charity  performed  by  the  De  la 
Garayes,  in  Madame  de  Genlis'  "Adele  et  Theo- 
dore ;"  but  inasmuch  as  she  has  totally  altered  the 
real  circumstances,  and  attributed  these  holy  deeds 


1 4  3f  ntrolinctuin. 

to  the  result  of  grief  for  the  loss  of  a  daughter, 
even  while  admitting  in  a  foot-note  that  she  is 
aware  the  Do  la  Garayes  never  had  a  chUd,  and 
that  all  is  her  own  invention,  I  do  not  think  it  ne- 
cessary further  to  aUude  to  her  version  of  the  tale ; 
more  striking  in  its  unadorned  truth  than  all  the 
art  of  the  poet  or  romancist  could  make  it. 


PROLOGUE. 

lUINS !    A  charm  is  in  the  word : 
It  makes  us  smile,  it  makes  us  sigh ; 
'Tis  like  the  note  of  some  spring 

bird 
Recalling  other  Springs  gone  by, 
And  other  wood-notes  which  we  heard 
With  some  sweet  face  in  some  green  lane, 
And  never  can  so  hear  again  1 

Ruins  1     They  were  not  desolate 
To  us, — the  ruins  we  remember : 
Early  we  came  and  lingered  late, 
Through  bright  July,  or  rich  September; 
With  young  companions  wild  with  glee, 
We  feasted  'neath  some  spreading  tree — 


ifi  (H'ht  lalip  of  1h  (Bnvuve. 

And  looked  into  their  laughing  eyes. 
And  mocked  the  echo  for  replies. 
Oh !  eyes — and  smiles — and  days  of  yore, 
Can  nothing  your  delight  restore  ? 
Return ! 

Eeturn?    In  vain  we  listen ; 
Those  voices  have  been  lost  to  earth ! 
Our  hearts  may  throb — our  eyes  may  glisten, 
They'll  call  no  more  in  love  or  mirth. 
For,  like  a  child  sent  out  to  play, 
Our  youth  hath  had  its  holiday, 
And  silence  deepens  where  we  stand 
Lone  as  in  some  foreign  land, 
Wbere  our  language  is  not  spoken, 
And  none  know  our  hearts  are  broken. 

Ruins !     How  we  loved  them  then  1 
How  we  loved  the  haunted  glen 
Which  gray  towers  overlook, 
Mirrored  in  the  glassy  brook ! 
How  we  dreamed, — and  how  we  guessed, 
Looking  up,  with  earnest  glances, 
"Where  the  black  crow  buLIt  its  nest, 


C^e  laBp  of  la  (Sarape.  17 

And  we  built  our  wild  romances ; 
Tracing  in  the  crumbled  dweULng 
Bygone  tales  of  no  one's  telling  I 

This  was  the  Chapel:  that  the  stair. 
Here,  where  all  lies  damp  and  bare, 
The  fragrant  thurible  was  swung, 
T]»e  silver  lamp  in  beauty  hung, 
And  in  that  mass  of  ivied  shade 
The  pale  nuns  sang — the  abbot  prayed. 

This  was  the  Kitchen.     Cold  and  blank 

The  huge  hearth  yawns ;  and  wide  and  high, 

The  chimney  shows  the  open  sky  ; 

There  daylight  peeps  through  many  a  crank 

"Where  birds  immund  find  shelter  dank, 

And  when  the  moonlight  shineth  through. 

Echoes  the  wild  tu-whit  to-whoo 

Of  mournful  owls,  whose  languid  flight 

Scarce  stirs  the  silence  of  the  night. 

This  is  the  Courtyard, — damp  and  drear  I 

The  men-at-arms  were  mustered  here ; 
2 


m  QTbe  LaUp  of  La  ®arape. 

Here  would  the  fretted  war-horse  bound, 
Starting  to  hear  the  trumpet  sound; 
And  captains,  then  of  wai-like  fame, 
Clanked  and  glittered  as  they  came. 
Forgotten  names !  forgotten  wars  I 
Forgotten  gallantry  and  scars  1 
How  is  your  little  busy  day 
Perished  and  crushed  and  swept  away  1 

Here  is  the  Lady's  Chamber,  whence 
"With  looks  of  lovely  innocence 
Some  heroine  om*  fancy  dresses 
In  golden  locks  or  raven  tresses, 
And  pearl  embroidered  silks  and  stuffi, 
And  quaintly  quilted  sleeves  and  ruffs, 
Looked  forth  to  see  retainers  go, 
Or  trembled  at  the  assaulting  foe. 

This  was  the  Dimgeon ;  deep  and  dai'k  I 
"Where  the  starved  prisoner  moaned  in  vain 
Until  Death  left  him  stiff  and  stark, 
Unconscious  of  the  galling  chain 
By  which  the  thin,  bleechcd  bones  were  bound 
When  chance  revealed  them  under  ground. 


(iri)e  Latp  of  La  (0arape.  19 

Oh  I  Time,  oh.  1  ever-conquering  Time  1 

These  men  had  once  their  prime : 

But  now,  succeeding  generations  hear 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  each  crumbling  arch 

The  music  low  and  drear. 

The  muflBed  music  of  thy  onward  march, 

Made  up  of  piping  winds  and  rustling  leaves 

And  plashing  raiu-di'ops  falling  from  slant  eaves, 

And  all  mysterious  unconnected  sounds 

With  which  the  place  abounds. 

Time  doth  efface 

Each  day  some  lingering  trace 

Of  human  government  and  human  care : 

The  things  of  air 

And  earth,  usurp  the  walls  to  be  their  own ; 

Creatures  that  dweU  alone, 

Occupy  boldly :  every  mouldering  nook 

Wherein  we  peer  and  look. 

Seems  with  wild  denizens  so  swarming  rife, 

We  know  the  healthy  stir  of  human  life 

Must  be  forever  gone  I 

The  walls  where  hung  the  warriors  shining  casques 

Are  green  with  moss  and  mould ; 


20  (K\)t  latjp  of  la  ^arape. 

The  blind  worm  coils  where  Queens  have  slept,  nor 

asks 
For  shelter  from  the  cold. 
The  swallow, — ^he  is  master  all  the  day. 
And  the  great  owl  is  ruler  through  the  night ; 
The  little  bat  wheels  on  his  circling  way 
With  restless  flittering  flight ; 
And  that  small  black  bat,  and  the  creeping  things, 
At  will  they  come  and  go, 
And  the  soft,  white  owl  with  velvet  wing3 
And  a  shriek  of  human  woe  I 
The  brambles  let  no  footstep  pass 
By  that  rent  in  the  broken  stair. 
Where  the  pale  tufts  of  the  windle-strae  grass 
Hang  like  locks  of  dry  dead  hair ; 
But  there  the  keen  wind  ever  weeps  and  moans, 
Working  a  passage  through  the  mouldering  stones. 

Oh !  Time,  oh  1  conquering  Time  1 

I  know  that  wild  viand's  chime 

Which,  like  a  passing-beU, 

Or  distant  kneU, 

Speaks  to  man's  heart  of  Death  and  of  Decay ; 


er^e  labp  of  la  ©arape.  21 

While  thy  step  passes  o'er  the  necks  of  Kings 
And  over  common  things, — 
And  into  Earth's  green  orchards  making  way, 
Halts,  where  the  fruits  of  human  hope  abound, 
And  shakes  their  trembling  ripeness  to  the  ground 

But  hark — a  sudden  shout 

Of  laughter !  and  a  nimble  giddy  rout, 

Who  know  not  yet  what  saddened  hours  may  meani 

Come  dancing  through  the  scene  1 

Ruins  1    Ruins  1  let  us  roam 

Through  what  was  a  human  home. 

"What  care  we 

How  deep  its  depths  of  darkness  be  ? 

Follow  1    Follow ! 

Down  the  hollow 

Through  the  bramble-fencing  thorns 

Where  the  white  snail  hides  her  horns .; 

Leap  across  the  dreadful  gap 

To  that  corner's  mossy  lap, — 

Do,  and  dare ! 

Clamber  up  the  crumbling  stair ; 


22  (J[\it  LaUp  of  la  0arape 

Trip  along  the  narrow  wall, 

Where  the  sudden  rattling  fall 

Of  loosened  stones,  on  winter  nights, 

In  his  dreams  the  peasant  frights : 

And  push  them,  till  their  rolling  sound. 

Dull  and  heavy,  beat  the  ground. 

Now  a  song,  high  up  and  clear, 

Like  a  lark's  enchants  the  ear ; 

Or  some  liappy  face  looks  down, 

Looking,  oh !  so  fresh  and  fair. 

Wearing  youth's  most  glorious  orown, 

One  rich  braid  of  golden  hair : 

Or  two  hearts  that  wildly  beat, 

And  two  pair  of  eager  feet. 

Linger  in  the  turret's  bend 

As  they  side  by  side  ascend. 

For  the  momentary  bliss 

Of  a  lover's  stolen  kiss ; 

And  emerge  into  the  shining 

Of  that  summer  day's  declining, 

Disengaging  clasping  hands 

As  they  meet  their  comrade  bands; 


(S^t  laUp  of  la  (^arape.  23 

With  the  smUe  that  lately  hovered, 
(Making  lips  and  eyes  so  bright,) 
And  the  blush  which  darkness  covered 
Mantling  still  in  rosy  light! 

Ruins!     Ohl  ye  have  youi- charm; 
Death  is  cold,  but  life  is  wai-m ; 
And  the  fervent  days  we  knew 
Ere  our  hopes  grew  faint  and  few, 
Claim  even  now  a  happy  sigh, 
Thinking  of  those  hours  gone  by : 
Of  the  wooing  long  since  passed,- — 
Of  the  love  that  still  shall  last, — 
Of  the  wooing  and  the  winning , 
Brightest  end  to  bright  beginning  ; 
When  the  feet  we  sought  to  guide 
Tripped  so  lightly  by  our  side, 
That,  as  swift  they  made  their  way 
Through  the  path  and  tangled  brake, 
Safely  we  could  swear  and  say 
"We  loved  all  ruins  for  their  sake! 
Gentle  hearts,  one  ruin  more 
From  amongFt  so  many  score — 


24  Qilft  taOv  of  la  0arape. 

One,  from  out  a  host  of  names, 
To  your  notice  puts  fortli  claims. 
Come !  with  me  make  holiday, 
hi  the  -woods  of  La  Garaye, 
Sit  within  those  tangled  bowers, 
"Where  fleet  by  the  silent  hours, 
Only  broken  by  a  song 
From  the  chirping  woodland  throng. 
Listen  to  the  tale  I  tell : 
Grave  the  story  is — ^not  sad ; 
And  the  peasant  plodding  by 
Greets  the  place  with  kindly  eye 
For  the  inmates  that  it  had ! 


^Ut  pay  df  p  (Sataye. 

PAET  I. 

N  Dinan's  walls  the  morning  sunlight 

plays, 
Gilds  the  stern  fortress  with  a  crown 

of  rays, 

Shines  on  the   childi-en's  heads  that 
troop  to  school, 
Tnrns  into  beryl-brown  the  forest  pool, 
Sends  diamond  spai'kles  over  gushing  springs, 
And  showers  down  glory  on  the  simplest  things. 
And  many  a  young  seigneur  and  damsel  bold 
See  with  delight  those  beams  of  reddening  gold, 
For  they  are  bid  to  join  the  hunt  to-day 
By  Claud  Marot,  the  lord  of  La  Garaye ; 
And  merry  is  it  in  his  spacious  halls ; 


86  QJ^t  LaUp  of  JU  (3arape. 

CJheerfu]  the  host,  whatever  sport  befalls, 

Cheerful  and  courteous,  full  of  manly  grace, 

His  heart's  frank  welcome  written  in  his  face  ; 

So  eager,  that  his  pleasure  never  cloys, 

But  glad  to  share  whatever  he  enjoys; 

Rich,  liberal,  gayly  dressed,  of  noble  mien, 

Clear  eyes, — full  curving  mouth, — and  brow  serene  j 

Master  of  speech  in  many  a  foreign  tongue, 

And  famed  for  feats  of  arms,  although  so  young ; 

Dexterous  in  fencing,  skilled  in  horsemanship — 

His  voice  and  hand  preferred  to  spur  or  whip ; 

Quick  at  a  jest  and  smiling  repartee. 

With  a  sweet  laugh  that  sounded  frank  and  fi'ee, 

But  holding  Satire  an  accursed  thing, 

A  poisoned  javelin  or  a  serpent's  sting ; 

Pitiful  to  the  poor ;  of  courage  high ; 

A  soul  that  could  all  turns  of  fate  defy: 

Gentle  to  women :  reverent  to  old  age : 

What  more,  young   Claud,  could   men's  esteem 

engage? 
What  more  be  given  to  bless  thine  earthly  state. 
Save  Love,  which  stUl  must  crown  the  happiest  fate  1 
Love,  therefore,  came.    That  sunbeam  lit  his  life. 


Ctt  LaUp  of  La  0arape.  27 

And  -where  he  wooed,  he  won,  a  gentle  wife, 
Born,  like  himself,  of  lineage  brave  and  good 
And  like  himself,  of  warm  and  eager  mood ; 
Glad  to  share  gladness,  pleasure  to  impart, 
"With  dancing  spirits  and  a  tender  heart. 
Pleased  too  to  shai-e  the  manlier  sports  which  made 
The  joy  of  his  yomig  hours.    No  more  afraid 
Of  danger,  than  the  seabird,  used  to  soar 
From  the  high  rocks  above  the  ocean's  roar. 
Which  dips  its  slant  wing  in  the  wave's  white  crestj 
And  deems  the  foamy  undulations,  rest. 

Nor  think  the  feminine  beanty  of  her  soid 

Tarnished  by  yielding  to  such  joy's  control; 

Nor  that  the  form  which,  like  a  flexile  reed, 

Swayed  with  the  movements  of  her  bonnduig  steed. 

Took  from  those  graceful  hours  a  rougher  force, 

Or  left  her  natm'e  masculine  and  coarse. 

She  was  not  bold  from  boldness,  but  from  love ; 

Bold  from  gay  frolic ;  glad  with  him  to  rove 

In  danger  or  in  safety,  weal  or  woe. 

And  where  he  ventured,  still  she  yeai-ned  to  go. 

Bold  with  the  courage  of  his  bolder  life. 


28  C()c  latip  of  La  (??ara?e. 

At  home  a  tender  and  submissive  wife; 
Abroad,  a  woman,  modest, — aye,  and  proud ; 
Xot  seeking  liomage  from  the  casual  crowd. 
She  remained  pure,  that  darling  of  his  sight, 
In  spite  of  boyish  feats,  and  rash  delight ; 
Still  the  eyes  fell  before  an  insolent  look, 
Or  flashed  their  bright  and  innocent  rebuke ; 
Still  the  cheek  kept  its  delicate  youthful  bloom, 
And  the  blush  reddened  through  the  snow-white 
plume. 

He  that  had  seen  her,  with  her  courage  high, 
First  in  the  chase  where  all  dashed  rapid  by, 
He  that  had  watched  her  bright  impetuous  look 
When  she  prepared  to  leap  the  silver  brook, — 
Fair  in  her  Spring-time  as  a  branch  of  May ; 
Had  felt  the  dull  sneer  feebly  die  away, 
And  unused  kindly  smiles  upon  his  cold  lips  play  1 

God  made  all  pleasures  innocent;  but  man 
Turns  them  to  shame,  since  first  our  earth  began 
To  shudder  'neath  the  stroke  of  delving  tools, 
"When  Eve  and  Adam  lost — poor  tempted  fools — 


erije  latjp  of  la  (Sarape.  29 

The  sweet  safe  shelter  of  tlieir  Eden  bowers, 
Its  easy  wealth  of  sun-ripe  fruits  and  flowers, 
For  some  forbidden  zest  that  was  not  given, 
Some  riotous  hope  to  make  a  mimic  Heaven, 
And  sank, — from  being  wingless  angels, — low 
Into  the  depths  of  mean  and  abject  woe. 

Why  should  the  sweet  elastic  sense  of  joy 
Presage  a  fault?     Why  should  the  pleasm-e  cloy, 
Or  turn  to  blame,  which  Heaven  itself  inspires, 
Who  gave  us  health  and  strength  and  all  desires  ? 
The  children  play,  and  sin  not ; — let  the  young 
Still  carol  songs,  as  others  too  have  sung ; 
Still  urge  the  fiery  courser  o'er  the  plain, 
Proud  of  his  glossy  sides  and  flowing  mane ; 
Still,  when  they  meet  in  careless  hours  of  mirth, 
Laugh,  as  if  Sorrow  were  unknown  to  earth ; 
Prattling  sweet  nothings,  which,  like  buds  of  flowers. 
May  turn  to  earnest  thoughts  and  vigilant  hours. 
What  boys  can  suffer,  and  weak  women  dare, 
Let  Indian  and  Crimean  wastes  declare : 
Perchance  in  that  gay  group  of  laughters  stand 
Guides  and  defenders  for  our  native  laud; — 


80  Cfte  laUp  of  La  (Bat&yt. 

F0II7  it  is  to  see  a  wit  in  woe, 

And  liold  youtli  sinful  for  the  spirits'  flow. 

As  through  the  meadow-lands  clear  rivers  run, 

Blue  in  the  shadow — sUver  in  the  sun — 

TiU,  rolling  by  some  pestilential  source, 

Some  factory  work  whose  wheels  with  horrid  force 

Strike  the  pure  waters  with  their  dripping  beams. 

Send  poison  gushing  to  the  crystal  streams, 

And  leave  the  innocent  things  to  whom  God  gave 

A  natural  home  in  that  translucent  wave 

Gasping  strange  death,  and  floating  down  to  show 

The  evil  working  in  the  depths  below, — 

So  man  can  poison  pleasure  at  its  source ; 

Clog  the  swift  sparkle  of  its  rapid  com-se, 

Mis  muddy  morbid  thoughts  in  vicious  strife, 

Till  to  the  surface  floats  the  death  of  life; — 

But  not  the  less  the  stream  itself  was  pure — 

And  not  the  less  may  blameless  joy  endure. 

Careless, — but  not  impure, — the  joyous  days 
Passed  in  a  rapturous  whirl ;  a  giddy  maze, 
Where  the  young  Count  and  lovely  Countess  di*ew 
A,  new  delight  from  every  pleasure  new. 


Crjif  la^  of  La  ©arape.  81 

They  woke  to  gladness  as  the  morning  broke ; 

Their  very  voices  kept,  whene'er  tliey  spoke, 

A  ring  of  joy,  a  harmony  of  life, 

That  made  you  bless  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

And  every  day  the  careless  festal  throng. 

And  every  night  the  dance  and  feast  and  song, 

Shared  with  young  boon  companions,  marked  the 

time 
As  with  a  carillon's  exulting  chune; 
Where  those  two  entered,  gloom  passed  out  of  eight, 
Chased  by  the  glow  of  their  intense  delight. 

So,  till  the  day  when  over  Dinan's  walls 
The  Autumn  sunshine  of  my  story  falls; 
And  the  guests  bidden,  gather  for  tlie  chase, 
And  the  smile  brightens  on  the  lovely  face 
That  greets  them  in  succession  as  they  come 
Into  that  high  and  hospitable  home. 

Like  a  sweet  picture  doth  the  Lady  stand, 
Still  blushing  as  she  bows ;  one  tiny  band, 
Hid  by  a  pearl-embroidered  gauntlet,  holds 
Ear  whip,  and  her  long  robe's  exuberant  folds. 


32  QTbe  laUp  of  La  0arape. 

The  other  hand  is  bare,  and  from  her  eyes 
Shades  now  and  tlien  the  sun,  or  softly  lies, 
With  a  caressing  touch,  upon  the  neck 
Of  the  dear  glossy  steed  she  loves  to  deck 
With  saddle-housings  worked  in  golden  thread, 
And  golden  bands  upon  his  noble  head. 
White  is  the  little  hand  whose  taper  fingers 
Smooth  his  fine  coat, — and  still  the  lady  lingers. 
Leaning  against  his  side ;  nor  lifts  her  head, 
But  gently  turns  as  gathering  footsteps  tread ; 
Reminding  you  of  doves  with  shifting  throats, 
Brooding  in  sunshine  by  their  sheltering  cotes. 
Under  her  plumed  hat  her  wealth  of  curls 
Falls  down  in  golden  links  among  her  pearls, 
And  the  rich  purple  of  her  velvet  vest 
Slims  the  young  waist,  and  rounds  the  graceful 
breast. 

So,  till  the  latest  joins  the  happy  Meet ; 
Then  springs  she  gladly  to  her  eager  feet ; 
And,  while  the  white  hand  from  her  courser's  side 
Slips  like  a  snow-flake, — stands  prepared  to  ride. 
Then  lightly  vaulting  to  her  seat,  she  seems 


d)e  Latip  of  1b  (^arape.  33 

Queen  of  some  fair  possession  seen  in  dreams ; 
Queen  of  herself,  and  of  the  world ;  sweet  Queen ! 
Her  crown  the  plume  above  her  brow  serene, 
Her  jewelled  whip  a  sceptre,  and  her  dress 
The  regal  mantle  worn  by  loveliness. 

And  well  she  wears  such  mantle :  swift  her  horse, 

But  firm  her  seat  throughout  the  rapid  course ; 

No  rash  unsteadiness,  no  shifting  pose 

Disturbs  that  line  of  beauty  as  she  goes : 

She  wears  her  robe  as  some  fair  sloop  her  sails, 

Wliich  swell  and  flutter  to  the  rising  gales, 

But  never  from  the  cordage  taut  and  trim 

Slacken  or  swerve  away.     The  evening  dim 

Sees  her  return,  unwearied  and  unbent, 

The  fair  folds  falling  smooth  as  when  she  went ; 

The  little  foot  no  clasping  buckle  keeps, 

She  frees  it,  and  to  earth  untrammelled  leaps. 

Alas!  look  well  upon  that  picture  fair! 
The  face — the  form — ^the  smile — the  golden  hair ; 
The  agile  beauty  of  each  movement  made, — 
The  loving  softness  of  her  eyes'  sweet  shade, 


84  (E^t  latip  of  La  Oarape, 

The  bloom  and  pliant  grace  of  youtliful  days, 
The  gladness  and  the  glory  of  her  gaze. 
If  we  knew  when  the  last  time  was  the  last, 
Visions  so  dear  to  straining  eyes  went  past ; 
If  we  knew  when  the  horror  and  the  gloom 
Should  overcast  the  pride  of  beauty's  bloom; 
If  we  knew  when  affection  nursed  in  vain 
Sliould  grow  to  be  but  bitterness  and  pain ; 
It  were  a  curse  to  blight  all  living  hours 
With  a  hot  dust,  like  dark  volcano  showers. 
Give  thanks  to  God  who  blinded  us  with  Hope ; 
Denied  man  skill  to  draw  his  horoscope ; 
And,  to  keep  mortals  of  the  present  fond, 
Forbid  the  keenest  sight  to  pierce  beyond  1 

Falsehood  from  those  we  trusted ;  cruel  sneers 
From  those  whose  voice  was  music  to  our  ears ; 
Lonely  old  age ;  oppressed  and  orplianed  youth ; 
Teaming  appeals  to  hearts  that  know  no  ruth; 
Ruin,  that  starves  pale  mouths  we  loved  to  feed ; 
A  friend's  forsaking  in  our  utmost  need ; 
These  come, — and  sting, — and  madden;  aye,  and 
slay; 


die  LaSp  of  La  (Sarapc.  36 

But  not  the  less  onr  joy  hath  had  its  day; 
No  little  cloud  first  flecked  our  tranquil  skies, 
Presaging  shipwreck  to  the  prophet  eyes; 
No  hand  came  forth  upon  the  walls  of  home 
With  vanishing  radiance  writing  darkest  doom ; 
No  child-soul  called  us  in  the  dead  of  night, 
Thrilled  with  a  message  from  a  God  of  might; 
No  shrouded  Seer,  by  some  enforcing  speU, 
Rose  from  Death's  rest,  Life's  restless  chance  to  tell ; 
The  lightning  smote  us — shivering  stem  and  bough : 
AU  was  so  green :  all  lies  so  blighted  noAV  1 

They  ride  together  all  that  sunny  day, 
Olaud  and  the  lovely  Lady  of  Garaye ; 
O'er  hill  and  dale, — through  fields  of  late  reaped 

corn, 
Through  woods— wherever  sounds  the  hunting-horn, 
"Wherever  scour  the  fleet  hounds,  fast  they  follow, 
Through  tufted  thickets  and  the  leaf-strewn  hollow ; 
And  thrice, — ^the  game  secured, — they  rest  awhile, 
And  slacken  bridle  with  a  breathless  smile ; 
And  thrice,  with  joyous  speed,  off^,  off  they  go, — 
Like  a  fresh  arrow  from  a  new-strung  bow! 


86  dLbt  laUp  of  la  (Sarape. 

But  now  the  ground  is  rough  with  boiilder  stones, 
Where,  wild  beneath,  the  prisoned  streamlet  moans, 
The  prisoned  streamlet  struggling  to  be  free, 
Baring  the  roots  of  many  a  toppling  tree, 
Breaking  the  line  where  smooth-barked  saplings 

rank. 
And  undermining  all  the  creviced  bank ; 
Till  gushing  out  at  length  to  open  space, 
Mad  with  the  effort  of  its  desperate  race, 
Tt  pauses,  swelling  o'er  the  narrow  ridge 
"Where  fallen  branches  make  a  natural  bridge, 
Leaps  to  the  next  descent,  and  balked  no  more, 
Foams  to  a  waterfall,  whose  ceaseless  roar 
Echoes  far  down  the  banks,  and  through  the  forest 

hoarl 

Across  the  water  full  of  peaked  stones — 
Across  the  water  where  it  chafes  and  moans — 
Across  the  water  at  its  widest  part — 
Which  wilt  thou  leap— oh,  lady  of  brave  heart  ? 

Their  smiling  eyes  have  met — those  eager  two : 
She  looks  at  Claud,  as  questioning  which  to  do : 


(S^l^t  lalip  of  La  (Sarape.  37 

He  rides — reins  in — looks  down  the  torrent's  course, 
Pats  the  sleek  neck  of  his  sure-footed  horse, — 
Stops, — measures  spaces  with  his  eagle  eye. 
Tries  a  new  track,  and  yet  returns  to  try. 
Sudden,  while  pausing  at  the  very  hrink, 
The  damp  leaf-covered  ground  appears  to  sink. 
And  the  keen  instinct  of  the  wise  dumb  brute 
Escapes  the  yielding  earth,  the  slippery  root ; 
"With  a  wild  effort  as  if  taking  wing 
The  monstrous  gap  he  clears  with  one  safe  spring ; 
Eeaches — (and  barely  reaches) — past  the  roar 
Of  the  wild  stream,  the  further  lower  shore,— 
Scrambles — ^recovers — ^rears — and  panting  stands 
Safe  'neath  his  master's  nerveless  trembling  hands. 

Oh !  even  while  he  leapt,  his  horrid  thought 
"Was  of  the  peril  to  that  lady  brought ; 
Oh !  even  while  he  leapt,  her  Claud  looked  back, 
And  shook  his  hand  to  warn  her  from  the  track. 
In  vain:  the  pleasant  voice  she  loved  so  well 
Feebly  re-echoed  through  that  dreadful  dell, 
Tlie  voice  that  was  the  music  of  her  home 
Shouted  in  vain  across  that  torrent's  foam. 


38  C[)e  laUp  of  ia  (0arape. 

He  saw  her  pausing  on  the  bank  above ; 
Saw, — like  a  dreadful  vision  of  his  love, — 
That  dazzling  dream  stand  on  the  edge  of  death  : 
Saw  it — and  stared — and  prayed — and  held  hia 

breath. 
Bright  shone  the  Autumn  sun  on  wood  and  plain ; 
On  the  steed's  glossy  flanks  and  flomng  mane; 
On  the  wild  silver  of  the  rushing  brook ; 
On  his  wife's  smiling  and  triumphant  look; 
Bright  waved  against  the  sky  her  wind-tost  plume, 
Bright  on  her  freshened  cheek  the  healthy  bloom, — 
Oh  1  all  bright  things,  how  could  ye  end  in  doom  1 

Forward  they  leaped!     They  leaped — a  colored 

flash 
Of  life  and  beauty.     Hark  I  a  sudden  crash, — 
Blent  with  that  dreadful  sound,  a  man's  sharp  ciy, — 
Prone, — 'neath  the  crumbUng  bank, — the  horse 

and  lady  lie  1 

Tlie  heart  grows  lumible  in  an  awe-struck  grief; 
Claud  thinks  not,  dreams  not,  plans  not  her  relief. 
Strengthen  him  but,  0  God !  to  reach  the  place, 


dLtft  laUp  of  la  (Sarape.  89 

And  let  Lim  look  upon  her  dying  face  I 
Let  liim  but  say  farewell  1  farewell,  sweet  love  1 
A.nd  once  more  hear  her  speak,  and  see  her  move, — 
And  ask  her  if  she  suffers  where  she  lies, — 
And  kiss  the  lids  down  on  her  closing  eyes, — 
And  he  will  he  content. 

He  climbs  and  strives : 
The  strength  is  in  his  heart  of  twenty  lives ; 
Across  the  leaf-strewn  gaps  he  madly  springs ; 
From  branch  to  branch  like   some  wild  ape  he 

swings ; 
Breasts,  with  hot  effort,  that  cold  rushing  source 
Of  death  and  danger.     With  a  giant's  force 
His  bleeding  hands  and  broken  nails  have  clung 
Round  the  gnarled  slippery  roots  above  him  hung, 
And  now  he's  near, — ^he  sees  her  through  the  leaves ; 
But  a  new  horrid  fear  his  mind  receives : 
The  steed  1  his  hoofs  may  crush  that  angel  headl 
No,  Claud, — her  favorite  is  already  dead. 
One  shivering  gasp  thro'  limbs  that  now  stretch 

out  like  lead. 

He's  with  her  I  is  he  dying  too  ?  his  blood 


40  €^t  iaOp  of  la  ^arape. 

Beats  no  more  to  and  fro ;  his  abstract  mood 
"Weighs  like  a  nightmare ;  something,  well  he  knows. 
Is  horrible, — and  still  the  horror  grows ; 
But  what  it  is,  or  how  it  came  to  pass. 
Or  why  lie  lies  half  fainting  on  the  grass, 
Or  what  he  strove  to  clutch  at  in  his  fall. 
Or  why  ho  had  no  power  for  help  to  call. 
This  is  confused  and  lost. 

But  Claud  has  heard 
A  sound  like  breathings  from  a  sleeping  bird 
New-caged  that  day, — a  weak  disturbing  sigli. 
The  whisper  of  a  grief  that  cannot  cry, — 
Repeated,  and  then  stiU ;  and  then  again 
Repeated, — and  a  long  low  moan  of  pain. 

The  hunt  is  passing ;  through  the  arching  glade 
The  hounds  sweep  on  in  flickering  light  and  shade, 
The  cheery  huntsman  winds  his  rallying  horn. 
And  voices  shouting  from  his  guests  that  morn 
Keep  calling,  calling,  "  Claud,  the  hunt  is  o'er, 
Return  we  to  the  merry  halls  once  more!" 
Claud  hears  not;  heeds  not; — all  is  like  a  dream, 
Except  that  lady  lying  by  the  stream ; 


(S^e  Labp  of  la  (Sarape.  41 

Above  all  tumult  of  uproarious  sound 
Comes  the  faint  sigh  that  breathes  along  the  ground, 
Where  pale  as  death  in  her  returning  life 
Writhes  the  sweet  angel  ■whom  he  still  calls  wife. 

He  parts  the  masses  of  her  golden  hair, 
He  lifts  her,  helpless,  with  a  shuddering  care. 
He  looks  into  her  face  with  awe-sti'uck  eyes ; — 
She  dies — the  darling  of  his  soul — she  dies ! 

You  might  have  heard,  through  that  thought's 

fearful  shock. 
The  beating  of  his  heart  like  some  huge  clock ; 
And  then  the  strong  pulse  falter  and  stand  stUl, 
When  lifted  from  that  fear  with  sudden  thrill 
He  bent  to  catch  faint  murmurs  of  his  name. 
Which  from  those  blanched  lips  low  and  trembling 

caine ; 
"Oh I  Claud!"  she  said:  no  more — 

But  never  yet, 
Through  all  the  loving  days  since  first  they  met, 
Leaped  his  heart's  blood  with  such  a  yearning  vou 
That  she  was  all  in  all  to  him,  as  now. 


42  (E^t  laUp  of  la  (0arape. 

"Oh!  Claud— the  pain  1" 

"Oh!  Gertrude,  my  oeloved?" 
Then  faintly  o'er  her  lips  a  wan  smile  moved, 
Which  dumhly  spoke  of  comfort  from  his  tone, 
As  though  she  felt  half  saved,  not  so  to  die  alone. 

Ah !  happy  they  who  in  their  grief  or  pain 
Yearn  not  for  some  familiar  face  in  vain ; 
Who  in  the  sheltering  arms  of  love  can  lie 
Till  human  passion  breathes  its  latest  sigh ; 
Who,  when  words  fail  to  enter  the  dull  ear, 
And  when  eyes  cease  from  seeing  forms  most  dear, 
Still  the  fond  clasping  touch  can  vmderstand, — 
And  sink  to  death  from  that  detaining  hand  1 

He  sits  and  watches ;  and  she  lies  and  moans ; 
The  wild  stream  rushes  over  broken  stones ; 
The  dead  leaves  flutter  to  the  mossy  earth ; 
Far-away  echoes  bring  the  hunters'  mirth ; 
And  the  long  hour  creeps  by — too  long — too  long 
Till  the  chance  music  of  a  peasant's  song 
Breaks  the  hard  silence  with  a  himian  hope, 
And  Claud  starts  up  and  gazes  down  the  slope  ; 


QD)t  LaUp  of  La  ®arapc.  43 

And  from  a  wandering  herdsman  he  ohtains 
The  help  whose  want  has  chilled  his  anxious  veins, 
Into  a  simple  litter  then  they  bind 
Thin  cradling  branches  deftly  intertwined  ; 
And  there  they  lay  the  lady  as  they  found  her, 
"With  all  her  bright  hair  streaming  sadly  round  licr 
Her  white  lips  parted  o'er  the  pearly  teeth 
Like  pictured  saints',  who  die  a  martyi-'s  death — 
And  slowly  bear  her,  like  a  corse  of  clay, 
Back  to  the  home  she  left  so  blithe  to-day. 

The  starry  lights  shine  forth  from  tower  and  hall. 
Stream  through  the  gateway,  glimmer  on  the  wall, 
And  the  loud  pleasant  stir  of  busy  men 
Tn  courtyard  and  in  stables  sounds  again. 
And  through  the  windows,  as  that  death-bier  passes. 
They  see  the  shining  of  the  ruby  glasses 
Set  at  brief  intervals  for  many  a  guest 
Prepared  to  share  the  laugh,  the  song,  the  jest ; 
Prepared  to  drink,  with  many  a  courtly  phrase, 
Their  host  and  hostess — 'Health  to  the  Garayes!' 
Health  to  the  slender,  lithe,  yet  stalwart  frame 
Of  Claud  Marot— Count  of  that  noble  name ; 


44  C|)e  latJp  of  ta  (Savn^t, 

Health  to  his  lovely  Oountess :  health — to  lierl 
Scarce  seems  she  now  with  faintest  breath  to  stir 
Oh  1  half-shut  eyes — oh  1  bi'ow  with  torture  damp — 
Win  life's  oil  rise  in  that  expiring  lamp  ? 
Are  there  yet  days  to  come,  or  does  he  bend 
Over  a  hope  of  which  this  is  the  end  ? 

He  shivers,  and  hot  tears  shut  out  the  sight 
Of  that  dear  home  for  feasting  made  so  bright ; 
The  golden  evening  light  is  round  him  dying, 
The  dark  rooks  to  their  nests  are  slowly  flying, 
As  underneath  the  portal,  faint  with  fear, 
He  sees  her  carried,  now  so  doubly  dear ; 
"Save  her!"  is  written  in  his  anxious  glances, 
As  the  quick-summoned  leech  in  haste  advances. 
"Save  her  I" — and  through  the  gloom  of  midnight 

hours, 
And  through  the  hot  noon,  shut  from  air  and 

flowers. 
Young  Claud  sits  patient — waiting  day  by  day 
For  health  for  that  sweet  lady  of  Garaye. 


PAKT  n. 

FIRST  walk  after  sickness:    the 

sweet  breeze 
That   murmurs    welcome    in    the 

bending  trees, 
When  the  cold  shadowy  foe  of  life 
departs, 
And  the  warm  blood  flows  freely  thro'  our  hearts: 
The  smell  of  roses, — sound  of  trickling  streams, 
The  elastic  turf  cross-barred  with  golden  gleams, 
That  seems  to  lift,  and  meet  our  faltering  tread ; 
The  happy  birds,  loud  singing  over-head  ; 
The  glorious  range  of  distant  shade  and  light, 
In  blue  perspective,  rapturous  to  our  sight. 
Weary  of  draperied  curtains  folding  round. 


46  (H:i)f  LaJp  of  La  ©arape. 

And  the  monotonous  chamber's  narrow  bound ; 
"With, — ^best  of  all, — the  consciousness  at  length, 
In  every  nerve,  of  sure  returning  strength  : — 

Long  the  dream  stayed  to  cheer  that  darkened  room, 
That  this  should  be  the  end  of  all  that  gloom ! 

Long,  as  the  vacant  life  trained  idly  by. 
She  pressed  her  pillow  with  a  restless  sigh, — 
"  To-morrow,  surely,  I  shall  stronger  feel !" 
To-morrow!  but  the  slow  days  onward  steal. 
And  find  her  still  with  feverish  aching  head, 
StUl  cramped  with  pain ;  still  lingering  in  her  bod ; 
Still  sighing  out  the  tedium  of  the  time ; 
Still  listening  to  the  clock's  recurring  chime. 
As  though  the  very  hours  that  struck  were  foes, 
And  might,  but  would  not,  grant  complete  repose. 
UntU  the  skilled  physician — sadly  bold 
From  frequent  questioning — her  sentence  told! 
That  no  good  end  could  come  to  her  faint  yearn- 
ing,— 
That  no  bright  hour  should  see  her  health  return- 
ing,— 


©!)«  2.alip  of  La  (Sarape.  47 

That  changeful  seasons, — not  for  one  dark  year, 
But  on  through  life, — must  teach  her  how  to  bear : 
For   through    all    Springs,    -with    rainbow-tinted 

showers, 
And  through  aU  Summers,  with  their  wealth  of 

flowers, 
And  every  Autumn,  with  its  harvest-home. 
And  all  white  Winters  of  the  time  to  come, — 
Crooked  and  sick  forever  she  must  he : 
Her  life  of  wild  activity  and  glee 
Was  with  the  past ; — the  future  was  a  life 
Dismal  and  feeble ;  full  of  suffering ;  rife 
With  chill  denials  of  accustomed  joy, 
Continual  torment,  and  obscure  annoy. 
Blighted  in  all  her  bloom, — ^her  withered  frame 
Must  now  inherit  age ;  young  but  in  name. 
Never  could  she,  at  close  of  some  long  day 
Of  pain  that  strove  with  hope,  exulting  lay 
A  tiny  new-born  infant  on  her  breast. 
And,  in  the  soft  lamp's  glimmer,  sink  to  rest. 
The  strange  corporeal  weakness  sweetly  blent 
With  a  delicious  dream  of  full  content ; 
With  pride  of  motherhood,  and  thankful  prayers" 


48  dje  iLalfp  of  la  ©arape. 

And  a  confused  glad  sense  of  novel  cares, 
And  peeps  into  the  future  brightly  given, 
As  though  her  babe's  blue  eyes  turned  earth  to 

heaven ! 
Never  again  could  she,  when  Claud  returned 
After  brief  absence,  and  her  fond  heart  yearned 
To  see  his  earnest  eyes,  Avith  upward  glancing, 
Greet  her  known  windows,  even  while  yet  ad- 
vancing,— 
Fly  with  light  footsteps  down  the  great  hall-stair, 
And  give  him  welcome  in  the  open  air, — 
As  though  she  were  too  glad  to  see  him  come, 
To  wait  till  ho  should  enter  happy  home, — 
And    there,   quick-breathing,    glowing,   sparkling 

stand, 
His  arm  round  her  slim  waist;    hand  locked  in 

hand; 
The  mutual  kiss  exchanged  of  happy  greeting, 
That  needs  no  secrecy  of  lovers'  meeting ; 
While,  giving  welcome  also  in  their  way. 
Her  dogs  barked  rustling  round  him,  wild  with 

play; 
And  voices  called,  and  hasty  steps  replied, 


CClie  tairp  of  la  ©arape.  49 

And  the  sleek  fiery  steed  was  led  aside, 
And  tlie  gray  seneschal  came  forth  and  smiled, 
Who  held  him  in  his  arms  while  yet  a  child ; 
And  cheery  jinglings  from  unfastened  doors. 
And  vaulted  echoes  through  long  corridors, 
And  distant  bells  that  thrill  along  the  wires. 
And  stir  of  logs  that  heap  up  autumn  fires. 
Crowned  the  glad  eager  hustle  that  makes  known 
The  Master's  step  is  on  his  threshold-stone  1 

Never  again  those  rides  so  gladly  shared, 

So  much  enjoyed, — in  which  so  much  was  dared 

To  prove  no  peril  from  the  gate  or  brook, — 

Need  bring  the  shadow  of  an  anxious  look. 

To  mar  the  pleasant  ray  of  proud  surprise 

That  shone  from  out  those  dear  protecting  eyes. 

No  more  swift  hurrying  through  the  summer  rain, 

That  showered  light  silver  on  the  freshened  pl;iin, 

Hung  on  the  tassels  of  the  hazel  bough, 

And  plashed  the  azure  of  the  river's  flow. 

No  more  glad  climbing  of  the  moimtain  height, 

From  whence  a  map,  drawn  out  in  lines  of  light, 

Showed  dotting  villages,  and  distant  spires. 


50  €bt  LaUp  of  La  0arape. 

And  the  red  rows  of  metal -burning  fires, 

And  purple  covering  woods,  within  whicli  stand 

"White  mansions  of  the  nobles  of  the  land. 

;No  more  sweet  wanderings  far  from  tread  of  men, 

In  the  deep  thickets  of  the  sunny  glen, 

To  see  the  vanished  Spring  bud  forth  again ; 

Its  well  remembered  tufts  of  primrose  set 

Among  the  sheltered  banks  of  violet ; 

Or  in  thatched  summer-houses  sit  and  dream. 

Through  gurgling  gushes  of  the  woodland  stream, 

Then,  rested,  rise,  and  bj  the  sunset  ray 

Saunter  at  will  along  the  homeward  way ; 

Pausing  at  each  delight, — the  singing  loud 

Of  some  sweet  thrush,  ei-e  lingering  eve  be  done; 

Or  the  pink  shining  of  some  casual  cloud 

That  blushes  deeper  as  it  nears  the  sun. 

The  rough  wood-path;  the  little  rocky  burn; 
Nothing  of  this  can  ever  now  return. 
The  life  of  joy  is  over :  what  is  left 
Is  a  half  life ;  a  life  of  strength  bereft ; 
The  body  broken  from  the  yearning  soul, 


(E^t  lalip  of  la  (Sarape.  51 

Never  again  to  make  a  perfect  whole ! 
Helpless  desires,  and  cravings  unfulfilled ; 
Bitter  regret,  in  stonny  weepings  stilled ; 
Strivings  vrhose  easy  eflEbrt  used  to  bless, 
Grown  full  of  danger  and  sharp  weariness ; 
This  is  the  life  whose  dreadful  dawn  must  rise 
"When  the  night  lifts,  within  whose  gloom  she  lies: 
Hope,  on  whose  lingering  help  she  leaned  so  late, 
Struck  fi'om  her  clinging  by  the  sword  of  fate — 
The  wild  word  nevee,  to  her  shrinking  gaze, 
Seems  written  on  the  wall  in  fiery  rays. 

Never! — our  helpless  changeful  natures  shiink 
Before  that  word  as  from  the  grave's  cold  brink ! 
Set  us  a  term  whereto  we  must  endure, 
And  you  shall  find  our  crown  of  patience  sure; 
But  the  irrevocable  smites  us  down ; — 
Helpless  we  lie  before  the  eternal  frown ; 
Waters  of  Marah  whelm  the  blinded  soul, 
Stifle  the  heart,  and  drown  our  self-control. 
So,  when  she  heard  the  grave  physician  speak, 
Horror  crept  through  her  veins,  who,  faint  and 
weak, 


62  Cl)e  latip  of  la  (Sarape. 

And  tortm'ed  by  all  motion,  yet  had  lain 
With  a  meek  cheerfulness  that  conquered  pain, 
Hoping, — till  that  dark  hour.     Give  back  the  hope, 
Though  years  rise  sad  with  intervening  scope  1 
Scarce  can  those  radiant  eyes  ■with  sickly  stsje 
Yet  comprehend  that  sentence  of  despair : 
Crooked  and  sick  forever !     Crooked  and  sick  I 
She,  in  whose  veins  the  passionate  blood  ran  quick 
As  leaps  the  rivulet  from  the  mountain  height. 
That  dances  rippling  into  Summer  light ; 
She,  in  whose  cheek  the  rich  bloom  always  stayed, 
And  only  deepened  to  a  lovelier  shade ; 
She,  whose  fleet  limbs  no  exercise  could  tire. 
When  wild  hill-climbing  wooed  her  spirit  higher  1 
Knell  not  above  her  bed  this  funeral  chime ; 
Bid  her  be  prisoner  for  a  certain  time ; 
Tell  her  blank  years  must  waste  in  that  changed 

home, 
But  not  forever, — not  for  life  to  come ; 
Let  infinite  torture  be  her  daily  guest, 
But  set  a  term  beyond  which  shall  be  rest. 

In  vain  I     She  sees  that  trembling  fountain  rise 


C^e  LaUp  of  La  (27arape.  63 

Tears  of  compassion  in  an  old  man's  eyes : 

And  in  low  pitying  tones,  again  he  tells 

The  doom  that  sounds  to  her  like  funeral  bells. 

Long  on  his  face  her  wistful  gaze  she  kept ; 

Then  dropped  her  head,  and  wildly  moaned  and 

wept; 
Shivering  through  every  limb,  as  lightning  thought 
Smote  her  with  all  the  endless  ruin  wrought. 
Never  to  be  a  mother !     Never  give 
Another  life  beyond  her  own  to  live, 
Never  to  see  her  husband  bless  theu*  chQd, 
Thinking  (dear  blessed  thought ! )  like  Iiim  it  smiled : 
Never  again  with  Claud  to  walk  or  ride, 
Partake  his  pleasures  with  a  playful  pride. 
But  cease  from  all  companionship  so  shared, 
And  only  have  the  hours  his  pity  spai'ed. 
His  pity — ah !  his  pity,  would  it  prove 
As  warm  and  lasting  as  admiring  love? 
Or  would  her  petty  joys'  late-spoken  doom 
Carry  the  great  joy  with  them  to  joy's  tomb? 
Would  all  the  hopes  of  life  at  once  take  wing  ? 
The  thought  went  through  her  with  a  secret  sting, 
And  she  repeated,  with  a  moaning  cry, 


64  QTlie  LaUp  of  la  (^arape. 

"  Better  to  die,  0  God  1     'Twere  best  to  die  I" 
But  we  die  not  by  wishing ;  in  God's  hour, 
And  not  our  own,  do  we  yield  up  the  power 
To  suffer  or  enjoy.     Tlie  broken  heart 
Creeps  through  the  world,  encumbered  by  its  clay; 
While  dearly  loved  and  cherished  ones  depart, 
Though  prayer  and  sore  lamenting  clog  their  way. 

She  lived :  she  left  that  sick-room,  and  was  fcroughf 
Into  the  scenes  of  customary  thought : 
The  banquet-room,  where  lonely  sunshine  slept. 
Saw  her  sweet  eyes  look  round  before  she  wept ; 
The  garden  heard  the  slow  wheels  of  her  chair, 
When  noon-day  heat  had  warmed  tlie  untried  air; 
The  pictures  she  had  smiled  upon  for  years. 
Met  her  gaze  trembling  through  a  mist  of  tears ; 
Her  favorite  dog,  his  long  unspoken  name 
Hearing  once  more,  with  timid  fawning  came; 
It  seemed  as  if  all  things  partook  her  blight, 
And  sank  in  shadow  like  a  speU  of  night. 

And  she  saw  Claud, — Claud  in  the  open  day, 
Who  through  dim  sunsets,  curtained  half  away, 


OTde  LaUp  of  La  ^arape.  65 

And  by  the  dawn,  and  by  the  lamp's  pale  ray, 
So  long  had  watched  her ! 

And  Claud  also  saw, 
That  beauty  which  was  once  without  a  flaw ; 
And  flushed, — but  strove   to  hide  the  sense   of 

shock, — 
The  feelings  that  some  witchcraft  seemed  to  mock. 
Are  those  her  eyes,  those  eyes  so  full  of  pain  ? 
Her  restless  looks  that  hunt  for  ease  in  vain? 
Is  that  her  step,  that  halt  uneven  tread  ? 
Is  that  her  blooming  cheek,  so  pale  and  dead  ? 
Is  that, — the  querulous  anxious  mind  that  tells 
Its  little  iUs,  and  on  each  ailment  dwells, — 
The  spirit  alert  which  early  morning  stirred 
Even  as  it  rouses  every  gladsome  bird, 
Whose  chorus  of  irregular  music  goes 
Up  with  the  dew  that  leaves  the  sun-touched  rose ! 

Oh  I  altered,  altered ;  even  the  smile  is  gone, 
Wliich,  like  a  sunbeam,  once  exulting  shone ! 
Smiles  have  returned ;  but  not  the  smiles  of  yore ; 
The  joy,  the  youth,  the  triumph,  are  no  more. 
An  anxious  smile  remains,  that  disconnects 


56  (Zri)e  LaOp  of  la  (^arapt. 

Smiling  from  gladness ;  one  that  more  dejects, 
Than  floods  of  passionate  weeping,  for  it  tries 
To  contradict  the  question  of  our  eyes ; 
We  say,  "Thou'rt  pained,  poor  heart,  and  full  of 

woe?" 
It  drops  that  shining  veil,  and  answers  "Fo ;" 
Shrinks  from  the  touch  of  unaccepted  hands, 
And  while  it  grieves,  a  show  of  joy  commands. 
Wan  shine  such  smiles ; — as  evening  sunlight  falls 
On  a  deserted  house  whose  empty  walls 
No  longer  echo  to  the  children's  play. 
Or  voice  of  mined  inmates  fled  away ; 
Where  wintry  winds  alone,  with  idle  state, 
Move  the  slow  swinging  of  its  rusty  gate. 

But  soraething  sadder  even  than  her  pain 
Torments  her  now,  and  thrills  each  languid  vein. 
Love's  tender  instinct  feels  through  every  nerve 
"VTlien  love's  desires,  or  love  itself  doth  swerve. 
AR  the  world's  pra'se  re-echoed  to  the  sky 
Cancels  not  blame  that  shades  a  lover's  eye; 
All  the  woiid's  blame,  which  scorn  for  scorn  repays, 
Fails  to  disturb  the  joy  of  lover's  praise. 


Crje  Lalp  of  la  0arape.  57 

Ah !  think  not  vanity  alone  doth  deck 

With  rounded  pearls  the  young  girl's  innocent  neck, 

"Who  in  her  duller  days  contented  tries 

The  homely  robe  that  -vsith  no  rival  vies, 

But  on  the  happy  night  she  hopes  to  meet 

The  one  to  whom  she  comes  with  trembling  feet. 

With  crimson  roses  decks  her  bosom  fan*, 

Warm  as  the  thoughts  of  love  all  glowing  there, 

Because  she  must  his  favorite  colors  wear ; 

And  all  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  her  youth 

Can  scarce  repay,  she  thinks,  her  lover's  truth. 

Vain  is  the  argument  so  often  moved, 
"  Who  feels  no  jealousy  hath  never  loved ;" 
She  whose  quick  fading  comes  before  her  tomb, 
Is  jealous  even  of  her  former  bloom. 
Eestless  she  pines ;  because,  to  her  distress. 
One  charm  the  more  is  now  one  claim  the  less 
On  his  regard  whose  words  are  her  chief  treasures, 
And  by  whose  love  alone  her  worth  she  measure? 

Gertrude  of  La  Garaye,  thy  heart  is  sore ; 
A  worm  is  gnawing  at  the  rose's  core, 


58  (E^t  lalip  of  la  0arape. 

A  doubt  corrodeth  all  thy  tender  trust, 
The  freshness  of  thy  day  is  choked  in  dust, 
Not  for  the  pain — although  the  pain  be  great, 
Not  for  the  change — though  changed  be  all  thy 

state; 
But  for  a  sorrow  dumb  and  unrevealed, 
^fost  from  its  cause  with  mournful  care  concealed— 
From  Claud — who  goes  and  who  returns  with  sighs, 
And  gazes  on  his  wife  with  wistful  eyes, 
And  muses  in  his  brief  and  cheerless  rides 
If  her  dull  mood  will  mend ;  and  inly  chides 
His  own  sad  spirit,  that  sinks  down  so  low, 
Instead  of  lifting  her  from  all  her  woe ; 
And  thinks  if  he  but  loved  her  less,  that  he 
Could  cheer  her  drooping  soul  with  gayety — 
But  wonders  evermore  that  beauty's  loss 
To  such  a  soul  should  seem  so  sore  a  cross. 

Until  one  evening  in  that  quiet  hush 
That  lulls  the  falling  day,  when  all  the  gush 
Of  various  sounds  seems  buried  with  the  sun, 
He  told  his  thought. 

As  winter  streamlets  run. 


Cfje  Lalip  of  la  ^arape.  59 

Freed  by  some  sudden  thaw,  and  swift  make  way 
Into  the  natural  channels  where  they  play, 
So  leaped  her  young  heart  to  his  tender  tone, 
So,  answering  to  his  warmth,  resumed  her  own ; 
And  all  her  doubt  and  aU  her  grief  confest. 
Leaning  her  faint  head  on  his  faithful  breast. 

"  IsTot  always,  Claud,  did  I  my  beauty  prize  ; 

Thy  words  first  made  it  precious  in  my  eyes, 

And  tm  thy  fond  voice  made  the  gift  seem  rare, 

Nor  tongue  nor  mirror  taught  me  I  was  fair. 

I  recked  no  more  of  beauty  in  that  day 

Of  happy  girlishness  and  chUdlike  play. 

Than  some  poor  woodland  bird,  who   stays  his 

flight 
On  some  low  bough  when  summer  days  are  bright, 
And  in  that  pleasant  sunshine  sits  and  sings. 
And  beaks  the  plumage  of  his  glistening  wings. 
Recks  of  the  passer-by  who  stands  to  praise 
His  feathered  smoothness  and  his  thrilling  lays. 
But  now,  I  make  my  moan — I  make  my  moan — 
I  weep  the  brightness  lost,  the  beauty  gone  ; 
Becaise,  now,  fading  is  to  fall  from  thee, 


60  (E]^e  Lalrp  of  La  (0arape. 

As  the  dead  fruit  fulls  bliglited  from  the  tree ; 
For  thee, — ^not  vanished  loveliness, — I  weep ; 
ily  beauty  was  a  spell,  thy  love  to  keep ; 
For  I  have  heard  and  read  how  men  forsake 
When  time  and  tears  that  gift  of  beauty  take, 
"Sot  care  although  the  heart  they  leave  may  break  1" 

A  husband's  love  was  there — a  husband's  love, — 
Strong,  comforting,  aU  other  loves  above ; 
On  her  bowed  neck  he  laid  his  tender  hand, 
And  his  voice  steadied  to  his  soul's  command : 
"  Oh  I  thou  mistaken  and  unhappy  child, 
Still  thy  complainings,  for  thy  words  are  wild. 
Thy  beauty,  though  so  perfect,  was  but  one 
Of  the  bright  ripples  dancing  to  the  sun, 
Which,  from  the  hoxir  I  hoped  to  call  thee  wife, 
Glanced  down  the  silver  stream  of  happy  life. 
Whatever  change  Time's  heavy  clouds  may  make, 
Those  are  the  waters  which  my  thirst  shall  slake : 
Eiver  of  all  my  hopes  thou  wert  and  art ; 
The  current  of  thy  being  bears  my  heart ; 
Whether  it  sweep  along  in  shine  or  shade, 
By  barren  rocks,  or  bauks  in  flowers  arrayed, 


CDJe  tab?  of  La  (?5arape.  61 

Foam  with  the  storm,  or  glide  in  soft  repose, — 
In  that  deep  channel,  love  unswerving  flows  I 
How  canst  thou  dream  of  beauty  as  a  thing 
On  which  depends  the  heart's  own  withering  ? 
Lips  budding  red  with  tints  of  vernal  years, 
And  deUcate  lids  of  eyes  that  shed  no  tears. 
And  light  that  falls  upon  the  shining  hair 
As  though  it  found  a  second  sunbeam  there, — 
These  must  go  by,  my  Gertrude,  must  go  by ; 
The  leaf  must  wither  and  the  flower  must  die  : 
The  rose  can  only  have  a  rose's  bloom ; 
Age  would  have  wrought  thy  wondrous  beauty's 

doom; 
A  little  sooner  did  that  beauty  go — 
A  little  sooner.    DarUng,  take  it  so ; 
Nor  add  a  sti-ange  despair  to  all  this  woe ; 
And  take  my  faith,  by  changes  unremoved, 
To  thy  last  hour  of  age  and  blight,  beloved  1" 

But  she  again, — "  Alas  1  not  from  distrust 
I  mourn,  dear  Claud,  nor  yet  to  thee  unjust 
I  love  thee  :  I  believe  thee :  yea,  I  know 
Thy  very  soul  is  wrmig  to  see  my  woe ; 


62  Cbc  Lali.p  of  La  ^arape. 

The  eai'tliqnake  of  compassion  trembles  still 

"Witliia  its  depths,  and  conquers  natural  will. 

But  after, — after, — when  the  shock  is  past, — 

When  cruel  Time,  who  flies  to  change  so  fast, 

Hath  made  my  suffering  an  accustomed  thing. 

And  only  left  me  slowly  withering ; 

Then  will  the  empty  days  rise  chill  and  lorn, 

The  lonely  evening,  the  unwelcome  morn. 

Until  thy  path  at  length  be  brightly  crost 

By  some  one  holding  all  that  I  have  lost ; 

Some  one  with  youthful  eyes,  enchanting,  bright, 

Full  as  the  morning  of  a  liquid  light ; 

And  while  my  pale  lip  stiff  and  sad  remains, 

Her  smiles  shall  thrill  like  sunbeams  through  thy 

veins : 
I  shall  fade  down,  and  she,  with  simple  art, 
All  bloom  and  beauty,  dance  into  thy  heart  1 
Then,  then,  my  Claud,  shall  I — at  length  alone — 
Recede  from  thee  with  an  unnoticed  moan, 
Sink  where  none  heed  me,  and  be  seen  no  more, 
Like  waves  that  fringe  the  Netherlandish  shore, 
Which  roll  unmurmuring  to  the  flat  low  land. 
And  sigh  to  death  in  that  monotonous  sand." 


(H^e  iaUp  of  la  (3avavt.  63 

Again  his  earnest  hand  on  hers  he  lays, 
With  love  and  pain  and  wonder  in  his  gaze. 

'  Oh,  darling  I  bitter  word  and  bitter  thonght 

What  daemon  to  thy  trusting  heart  hatli  brought? 

It  may  be  thus  within  some  sensnal  breast, 

By  passion's  fire,  not  true  love's  power  possest ; 

The  creature  love,  that  never  lingers  late, 

A  springtide  thirst  for  some  chance-chosen  mate. 

Oh !  my  companion,  'twas  not  so  with  me ; 

Not  in  the  days  long  past,  nor  now  shall  be. 

The  drunken  dissolute  hour  of  Love's  sweet  cup, 

"When  eyes  are  wild,  and  mantling  blood  is  up, 

Even  in  my  youth  to  me  was  all  unknown : 

Until  I  truly  loved,  I  was  alone. 

I  asked  too  much  of  intellect  and  grace, 

To  pine,  though  young,  for  every  pretty  face. 

Whose  passing  briglitness  to  quick  fancies  mado 

A  sort  of  sunshine  in  the  idle  shade ; 

Beauties  who  starred  the  earth  like  common  flowftrs, 

The  careless  eglantines  of  wayside  bowers. 

I  lingered  till  some  blossom  rich  and  rare 

Hung  like  a  glory  on  tlic  scented  air, 


64  Cde  Latip  of  La  (^arape. 

Enamoring  at  once  the  heart  and  eye, 
So  that  I  i^aused,  and  could  not  pass  it  by. 
Then  woke  the  passionate  love  within  my  heai-t, 
And  only  witli  my  life  shall  that  depart ; 
'Twas  not  so  sensual  strong,  so  loving  weak, 
To  ebb  when  ebbs  the  rose-tinge  on  thy  cheek ; 
Fade  with  thy  fading,  weakening  day  by  day 
Till  thy  locks  silver  with  a  dawning  gray : 
No,  Gertrude,  trust  me,  for  thou  mayst  believe, 
A  better  faith  is  that  which  I  receive ; 
Sacred  I'll  hold  the  sacred  name  of  wife, 
And  love  thee  to  the  sunset  verge  of  life ! 
Yea,  shall  so  much  of  empire  o'er  man's  soul 
Live  in  a  wanton's  smile,  and  no  control 
Bind  down  his  heart  to  keep  a  steadier  faith, 
For  links  that  are  to  last  from  life  to  death  ? 
Let  those  who  can,  in  transient  loves  rejoice, — 
Still  to  new  hopes  breathe  forth  successive  sighs, - 
Give  me  the  music  of  the  accustomed  voice, 
And  the  sweet  light  of  long  familiar  eyesl" 

He  ceased.    But  she,  for  all  his  fervent  speech. 
Sighed  as  she  listened.     "  Claud,  I  cannot  reach 


(E^t  LaUp  of  La  ^arape.  65 

The  summit  of  the  hope  where  thou  woulclst  set  me, 
And  all  I  crave  is,  never  to  forget  me ! 
Wedded  I  am  to  pain,  and  not  to  thee ; 
Thy  life's  companion  I  no  more  can  be  be, 
For  thou  remainest  all  thou  vrart — but  I 
Am  a  fit  bride  for  Death,  and  long  to  die. 
Tea,  long  for  death ;  for  thou  wouldst  miss  me  then 
More  even  than  now,  in  mountain  and  in  glen ; 
And  musing  by  the  white  tomb  where  I  lay, 
Think  of  the  happier  time  and  earlier  day, 
And  wonder  if  the  love  another  gave 
Equalled  the  passion  buried  in  that  grave." 

Then  with  a  patient  tenderness  he  took 
That  pale  wife  in  his  arms,  with  yearning  look : 
"  Oh !  deai'er  now  than  when  thy  girlish  tongue 
Faltered  consent  to  love  while  both  were  young. 
Weep  no  more  foolish  tears,  but  lift  thy  head ; 
Those  drops  fall  on  my  heart  like  molten  lead ; 
And  all  my  soul  is  full  of  vain  remorse, 
Because  I  let  thee  take  that  dangerous  course. 
Share  in  the  chase,  pursue  with  horn  and  hound. 
And  follow  madly  o'er  the  roughening  ground. 


66  C|)c  LaJp  of  la  (Sarapf. 

Not  lightly  did  I  love,  nor  liglitly  clioose ; 

Wliate'er  tbou  losest  I  will  also  lose; 

If  bride  of  Death, — being  first  my  cboseu  bride, — 

I  will  await  death,  lingering  by  thy  side  ; 

And  God,  He  knows,  who  reads  all  human  though tj 

And  by  whose  will  this  bitter  hour  was  brought, 

How  eagerly,  could  human  pain  be  shifted, 

I  would  lie  low,  and  thou  once  more  be  lifted 

To  walk  in  beauty  as  thou  didst  before. 

And  smile  upon  the  welcome  world  once  more. 

Oh  I  loved  even  to  the  brim  of  love's  fiill  fount. 

Wilt  thou  set  nothing  to  firm  faith's  account  ? 

Ohoke  back  thy  tears  which  are  my  bitter  smart, 

Lean  thy  dear  head  upon  my  aching  heart ; 

It  may  be  God,  who  saw  our  careless  life, 

Xot  sinful,  yet  not  blameless,  my  sweet  wife, 

(Since  all  we  thought  of,  in  our  youth's  bright 

May, 
Was  but  the  coming  joy  from  day  to  day,) 
Hath  blotted  out  all  joy  to  bid  us  learn 
That  this  is  not  our  home ;  and  make  us  turn 
From  the  enchanted  earth,  where  much  was  given, 
To  higher  aims,  and  a  forgotten  heaven." 


QL^t  iaJp  of  ta  (Sarapr.  67 

So  spoke  her  love — and  wept  in  spite  of  word.^  ; 
While  lier  heart  echoed  all  his  heart's  accords, 
And  leaning  down,  she  said  with  whispering  sigli, 
"I  sinned,  my  Claud,  in  wishing  so  to  die." 
Then  they,  who  oft  in  Love's  delicious  bovvers 
Had  fondly  wasted  glad  and  passionate  hours, 
Kissed  with  a  mutual  moan : — but  o'er  their  lips 
Love's  light  passed  clear,  from  under  Life's  eclipse, 


A   THBENODY. 

|0W  Memory  haunts  us  I     When  we 
fain  would  be 
Alone  and  free, — 

Uninterrupted  by  Ma  mournfal  words, 
Faint,  indistinct,  as  are  a  wind-harp 'e 
chords 
Hong  on  a  leafless  tree, — 
He  will  not  leave  us :  we  resolve  in  vain 
To  chase  him  forth — for  he  returns  again. 
Pining  incessantly  1 

In  the  old  pathways  of  our  lost  delights 
He  walks  on  sunny  days  and  starlit  nights. 
Answering  our  restless  moan, 
With, — "I  am  here  alone, 


70  CTfjc  laJp  of  la  (Sarape. 

My  brother  J07  is  gone — forever  gone  I 

Round  your  decaying  home 

The  Spring  indeed  is  come, 

The  leaves  are  thrilling  with  a  sense  of  life, 

The  sap  of  flowers  is  rife, 

But  where  is  Joy,  Heaven's  messenger, — ^bright 

Joy,— 
That  curled  and  radiant  boy, 
Who  was  the  younger  brother  of  my  heart? 
Why  let  ye  him  whom  I  so  loved  depart? 
Call  him  once  more, 
And  let  us  all  be  glad,  as  heretofore !" 

ITien,  urged  and  stung  by  Memory,  we  go  forth, 

And  wander  south  and  north. 

Deeming  Joy  yet  may  answer  to  our  yearning ; 

But  all  is  blank  and  bare : 

The  silent  air 

Echoes  no  pleasant  shout  of  his  returning. 

Yet    somewhere — somewhere,    by   the    pathless 

woods, 
Or  silver  rippling  floods, 
lie  wanders  as  he  wandered  once  with  us ; 


fK^t  LaUp  of  la  (Snrape.  71 

Through  bright  arcades  of  cities  populous; 

Or  else  in  deserts  rude, 

Happy  in  solitude, 

And  choosing  only  Youth  to  be  his  mate, 

He  leaves  us  to  our  fate. 

"We  hear  his  distant  laughter  as  we  go, 

Pacing,  ourselves,  with  Woe, — 

But  us  he  hath  outstripped  for  evermore  1 

Seek  him  not  hi  the  wood, 

"Where  the  sweet  ring-doves  ever  murmuring 

brood ; 
Nor  on  the  hill,  nor  by  the  golden  shore ; 
Others  inherit  that  which  once  was  ours ; 
The  freshness  of  the  hours, — 
The  sparkling  of  the  early  morning  rime, 
The  evanescent  glory  of  the  time  I 

With  them,  in  some  sweet  glade, 

"Warm  with  a  summer  shade. 

Or  where  white  clover,  blooming  fresh  and  wild, 

Breathes  like  the  kisses  of  a  little  child, 

He  lingers  now : — we  call  him  back  in  vain 

To  our  world's  snow  and  rain ; 


72  CTJe  iaUp  of  La  (^arapr. 

The  bower  we  built  liiin  when  ho  was  our  guest 

Life's  storms  have  beaten  down, 

And  he  far  off  hath  flown, 

And  buildeth  where  there  is  a  sunnier  nest ; 

Or,  closing  rainbow  wings  and  laughing  eyes, 

He  lieth  basking  'neath  the  open  skies, 

Taking  his  rest 

On  the  soft  moss  of  some  unbroken  ground, 

"Where  sobs  did  never  sound. 

Oh!  give  him  up:  confess  that  Joy  has  gone  : 

He  met  you  at  the  source  of  Life's  bright  river  : 

And  if  he  hath  passed  on, 

'Tis  that  his  task  is  done, 

He  hath  no  future  meseage  to  deliver, 

But  leaves  you  lone  and  stUl  forever  and  forever  I 


PART  m. 

EVER  again  1     When  first  that  sen- 
tence fell 
From  lips  so  loth  the  bitter  truth  to 

teU, 
Death  seemed  the  balance  of  its  bur- 
dening care, 
The  only  end  of  such  a  strange  despair. 
To  live  deformed ;  enfeebled ;  still  to  sigh 
Through  changeless  days,  that  o'er  the  heart  go  by 
Colorless, — formless, — melting  as  they  go 
Into  a  dull  and  unrecorded  woe, — 
Why  strive  for  galdness  in  such  dreary  shade  ? 
Why  seek  to  feel  less  cheerless,  less  afraid  ? 
What  recks  a  little  more  or  less  of  gloom, 


74  QLl^t  Latip  of  La  ®arape. 

When  a  contlnnal  darkness  is  onr  doom  ? 

But  custom, — which,  to  unused  eyes  that  dwell 

Long  in  the  blankness  of  a  prison  cell, 

At  length  shows  glimmerings  through  some  mined 

hole, — 
Trains  to  endurance  the  imprisoned  soul ; 
And  teaching  how  with  deepest  gloom  to  cope. 
Bids  patience  light  her  lamp,  when  sets  the  sun 

of  hope. 

And  even  like  one  who  sinks  to  brief  repose 
Cumbered  with  mournfulness  from  many  woes ; 
Who,  restless  dreaming,  full  of  horror  sleeps, 
And  with  a  worse  than  waking  anguish  weeps, 
Till  in  his  dream  some  precipice  appear 
Which  he  must  face,  however  great  his  fear : 
Who  stepping  on  those  rocks,  then  feels  them  break 
Beneath  him, — and,  with  shrieks,  leaps  up  awake ; 
And  seeing  but  the  gray  unwelcome  morn. 
And  feeling  but  the  usual  sense  forlorn 
Of  loss  and  dull  remembrance  of  known  grief, 
Melts  into  tears  that  partly  bring  relief, 
Because,  though  misery  holds  him,  yet  his  dreams 


Cbf  Latip  of  La  0arapc.  7A 

More  dreadful  were  than  all  around  him  seems : — • 

So,  in  the  life  grown  real  of  loss  and  woe, 

She  woke  to  crippled  days ;  which,  sad  and  slow 

And  infinitely  weary  as  they  were, 

At  first  appeared  less  hard  than  fancy  deemed,  to 

bear. 
But  as  those  days  roUed  on,  of  grinding  pain, 
Of  wild  untamed  regrets,  and  yearnings  vain, 
Sad  Gertrude  grew  to  weep  with  restless  tears 
For  all  the  vamshed  joys  of  blighted  years. 
And  most   she    mourned  with  feverish    piteous 

pining, 
When  o'er  the  land  the  summer  snn  was  shining ; 
And  all  the  volumes  and  the  missals  rare, 
Which  Claud  had  gathered  with  a  tender  cai*e. 
Seemed  nothing  to  the  book  of  nature,  spread 
Around  her  helpless  feet  and  weary  head. 

Oh  1  woodland  paths  she  ne'er  again  may  see ; 
Oh  I  tossing  branches  of  the  forest  tree ; 
Oh  I  loveliest  banks  in  all  the  land  of  France, 
Glassing  your  shadows  in  the  silvery  Eance ; 
Oh  1  river  with  your  swift  yet  quiet  tide. 


76  Wbt  LaUp  of  La  0arape. 

Specked  with  white  sails  that  seem  in  dreams  to 

glide ; 
Ohl  ruddy  orchards,  basking  on  the  hills, 
Whose  plenteous  fruit  the  thirsty  flagon  fills; 
And  oh  1  ye  winds,  which,  free  and  unconfined, 
No  sickness  poisons,  and  no  heart  can  bind, — 
Restore  her  to  enjoyment  of  the  earth  1 
Echo  again  her  songs  of  careless  mirth, 
Those  little  Breton  songs  so  wildly  sweet, 
Fragments  of  music  strange  and  incomplete, 
Her  small  red  mouth  went  warbling  by  the  way 
Through  the  glad  roamings  of  her  active  day. 

It  may  not  be  I     Blighted  are  summer  hours ! 
The  bee  goes  booming  through  the  plats  of  flowers, 
The  butterfly  its  tiny  mate  pursues 
"With  rapid  fluttering  of  its  painted  hues, 
The  thin-winged  gnats  their  ti'ansient  time  employ 
Reeling  through  sunbeams  in  a  dance  of  joy. 
The  small  field-mouse  with  wide  transparent  ears 
Comes  softly  forth,  and  softly  disappears. 
The  dragon-fly  hangs  glittering  on  the  reed. 
The  spider  swings  across  his  filmy  thread, 


QLfft  talrp  of  La  (^arape.  77 

And  gleaming  fishes,  darting  to  and  fro, 

Make  restless  silver  in  the  pools  below. 

All  these  poor  lives — these  lives  of  small  account, 

Feel  the  ethereal  thrill  within  them  mount ; 

But  the  great  human  life, — the  life  Divine, — 

Rests  in  dull  torture,  heavy  and  supine, 

And  the  bird's  song,  by  Gai-aye's  walls  of  stone, 

Crosses  within,  the  irrepressible  moan  I 

The  slow  salt  tears,  half  weakness  and  half  grief, 

That  sting  the  eyes  before  they  bring  relief, 

And  which  with  weary  lids  she  strives  in  vain 

To  prison  back  upon  her  aching  brain. 

Fall  down  the  lady's  cheek, — her  heart  is  breaking : 

A  mournful  sleep  is  hers;  a  hopeless  waking; 

And  oft,  in  spite  of  Claud's  beloved  rebuke, 

When  first  the  awful  wish  her  spirit  shook, — 

She  dreams  of  Death, — and  of  that  quiet  shore 

In  the  far  world  where  eyes  shall  weep  no  more. 

And  where  the  soundless  feet  of  angels  pass 

With  floating  hghtness  o'er  the  sea  of  glass. 

Nor  is  she  sole  in  gloom.    Claud  too  hath  lost 
His  power  to  soothe  her, — all  his  tlioughts  are  tinst 


78  QTbt  tatip  of  In  ^arape. 

As  in  a  storm  of  sadness :  shall  he  speak 

To  her,  who  lies  so  faint,  and  lone,  and  weak, 

Of  pleasant  walks  and  rides?  or  yet  describe 

The  merry  sayings  of  that  careless  tribe 

Of  friends  and  boon  companions  now  unseen, — 

Or  the  wild  beauty  of  the  forest  green, — 

Or  daring  feats  and  hair-breadth  'scapes,  which  they 

Who  are  not  crippled,  think  a  thing  for  play  ? 

He  dare  not : — oft  without  apparent  cause 

He  checks  his  speaking  with  a  faltering  pause ; 

Oft  when  she  bids  him,  with  a  moui-nful  smile, 

By  stories  such  as  these  the  hour  beguile, 

And  he  obeys — only  because  she  bids — 

lie  sees  the  large  tears  welling  'neath  the  lids. 

Or  if  a  moment's  gayety  return 

To  his  young  heart,  that  scarce  can  yet  unlearn 

Its  habits  of  delight  in  all  things  round, 

And  he  grows  eager  on  some  subject  found 

In  their  discourse,  linked  with  the  outward  world. 

Till  with  a  pleasant  smile  his  lip  is  curled, — 

Even  with  her  love  she  smites  him  back  to  pain  I 

Upon  his  hand  her  tears  and  kisses  rain ; 


Cde  Lalip  of  La  (^arape.  79 

And  with  a  suffocated  voice  she  cries, 
"  0 1  Claud— the  old  bright  days  1" 

And  then  he  sighs, 
And  with  a  wistful  heart  makes  new  endeavor 
To  cheer  or  to  amuse ; — and  so  forever, 
Till  in  his  brain  the  grief  he  tries  to  cheat, 
A  di'eaiy  miU-wheel  circling  seems  to  beat, 
And  drive  out  other  thoughts — all  thoughts  but  one 
That  he  and  she  are  both  alike  undone, — 
That  better  were  their  mutual  fate,  if  when 
That  leap  was  taken  in  the  fatal  glen. 
Both  had  been  found,  released  from  pain  and  dread, 
In  the  rough  waters  of  the  torrent's  bed. 
And.  greeted  pitying  eyes,  with  calm  smiles  of  the 
Deadl 

A  spell  is  on  the  efforts  each  would  make. 
With  willing  spirit,  for  the  other's  sake : 
Through  some  new  path  of  thought  he  fain  would 

move, — 
And  she  her  languid  hours  would  fain  employ; 
But  bitter  grows  the  sweetness  of  their  love, — 
And  a  lament  lies  under  all  their  joy. 


80  QTbe  lalip  of  La  ^arape. 

Sho  watches  Olautl, — bending  above  the  page; 
Thinks  him  grown  pale,  and  wearying  with  his  care; 
And  with  a  sigh  his  promise  would  engage 
For  happy  exercise  and  summer  air : 
He  watches  her,  as  sorrowful  she  lies, 
And  thinks  she  dreams  of  woman's  hope  denied ; 
Of  the  soft  gladness  of  a  young  child's  eyes. 
And  pattering  footsteps  on  the  terrace  wide, — 
Where  sunshine  sleeps,  as  in  a  home  for  light, 
And  glittering  peacocks  make  a  rainbow  show, — 
But  which  seems  sad,  because  that  terrace  bright 
Must  evermore  remain  as  lone  as  now . 

And  either  tries  to  hide  the  thoughts  that  wring 
Their  secret  hearts ;  and  both  essay  to  bring 
Some  happy  topic,  some  yet  lingering  dream, 
Which  they  with  cheerful  words  shall  make  their 

theme ; 
But  fail, — and  in  their  wistful  eyes  confess 
All  their  words  never  own  of  hopelessness. 

Was  then  Despaie  the  end  of  all  this  woe? 
Far  oif  the  angel  voices  ansvv'er,  No  I 


♦Zriie  laBp  of  ia  (Sarape.  81 

Devils  despair,  for  they  believe  and  tremble ; 

But  man  believes  and  hopes.     Our  griefs  resemble 

Each  other  but  in  this.     Grief  comes  from  Heaven ; 

Each  thinks  his  own  the  bitterest  trial  given ; 

Each  wonders  at  the  sorrows  of  his  lot ; 

His  neighbor's  sufferings  presently  forgot, 

Though  wide  thu  difference  which  our  eyes  can  sec 

Not  only  in  grief  "s  kind,  but  its  degree. 

God  grants  to  some,  all  joys  for  their  possession, 

Nor  loss,  nor  cross,  the  favored  mortal  mourns ; 

While  some  toU  on,  outside  those  bounds  of  blessing, 

Whose  weary  feet  forever  tread  on  thorns. 

But  over  all  our  tears  God's  rainbow  bends ; 

To  all  our  cries  a  pitying  ear  He  lends ; 

Yea,  to  the  feeble  sound  of  man's  lament 

How  often  have  His  messengers  been  sent  1 

No  barren  glory  circles  round  His  throne, 

By  mercy's  errands  were  his  angels  known ; 

Where  hearts  were  heavy,  and  where  eyes  were 

dim, 

There  did  the  brightness  radiate  from  Him ; 

God's  pity, — clothed  in  an  apparent  form, — 

Starred  with  a  polar  light  the  human  storm, 
6 


82  (H^t  LaUp  of  la  0airapt. 

Floated  o'er  tossing  seas  man's  sinking  bark, 
And  for  all  dangers  built  one  sbelterLiig  ark. 

When  a  slave's  child  lay  dying,  parched  with  thirst, 
Till  o'er  the  arid  waste  a  fountain  burst, — 
When  Abraham's  mournful  hand  upheld  the  knife 
To  smite  tlie  silver  cord  of  Isaac's  life, — 
"When  faithful  Peter  in  his  prison  slept, — 
"When  lions  to  the  feet  of  Daniel  crept, — 
When  the  tried  Three  walked  tliro'  the  furnace  glare, 
Believing  God  was  with  them,  even  there, — 
When  to  Bethesda's  sunrise-smitten  wave 
Poor  trembling  cripples  crawled  their  limbs  to  lave : 
In  all  the  various  foi'ms  of  human  trial. 
Brimming  that  cup,  filled  from  a  bitter  vial, 
Which  even  the  suffering  Christ  with  fainting  cry 
"Under  God's  will  had  shudderingly  passed  by : — 
To  hunger,  pain,  and  thirst,  and  human  dread ; 
Imprisonment ;  sharp  sorrow  for  the  dead ; 
Deformed  contraction;  burdensome  disease; 
Humbling  and  fleshly  ill! — to  all  of  these 
TJie  shining  messengers  of  comfort  came, — 
God's  angels, — ^healing  in  God's  holy  name. 


€\)t  LaUp  of  La  ©arape.  83 

And  when  the  crowning  pity  sent  to  earth 

The  Man  of  Sorrows,  in  mysterious  birth ; 

And  the  angelic  tones  with  one  accord 

Made  loving  chorus  to  proclaim  the  Lord  ; 

Was  Isaac's  guardian  there,  and  he  who  gave 

Hagar  the  sight  of  that  cool  gushing  wave  ? 

Did  the  defender  of  the  youthful  Three, 

And  Peter's  usher,  join  that  psalmody? 

With  him  who  at  the  dawn  made  healing  sure, 

Troubling  the  waters  with  a  freshening  cure ; 

And  those,  the  elect,  to  whom  the  task  was  given 

To  offer  solace  to  the  Son  of  Heaven, 

When, — mortal  tremors  by  the  Immortal  felt, — 

Pale,  'neath  the  Syrian  olives,  Jesu  knelt, 

Alone, — 'midst  sleeping  followers  warned  in  vain ; 

Alone  with  God's  compassion,  and  His  pain  I 

Cease  we  to  dream.   Our  thoughts  are  yet  more  dim 
Than  children's  are,  wlio  put  their  trust  in  Him. 
AH  that  our  wisdom  knows,  or  ever  can, 
Is  this :  that  God  hath  pity  upon  man ; 
And  where  His  Spirit  shines  in  Holy  Writ, 
The  great  word  Oojifoetee  comes  after  it. 


^hi^  pay  0f  f «  mxm^e, 

PAET  IV. 

|ILENT  old  gateway!  wliose  two  col- 
umns stand 
Like    simple   monuments   on  either 

hand; 
No  trellised  iron-work,  with  pleasant 
view 
Of  trim-set  flowery  gardens  shining  through ; 
No  bolts  to  bar  unasked  intruders  out; 
No  well-oiled  hinge  whose  sound,  like  one  low  note 
Of  music,  tells  the  listening  hearts  that  yearn, 
Expectant  of  dear  footsteps,  where  to  turn ; 
No  ponderous  bell  whose  loud  vociferous  tone 
Into  the  rose-decked  lodge  hath  echoing  gone, 
Bringing  the  porter  forth  with  brief  delay, 


«6  Cbc  JLatJp  of  La  0arape. 

To  spread  those  iron  wings  that  check  the  way ; 
Nothing  hut  ivy-leaves,  and  crumbling  stone ; 
Silent  old  gateway, — even  thy  life  is  gone ! 

But  ere  those  columns,  lost  in  ivied  shade, 
Black  on  the  midnight  sky  their  forms  portrayed ; 
And  ere  thy  gate,  by  damp  weeds  overtopped, 
Swayed  from  its  rusty  fastenings  and  then  dropped, 
When  it  stood  portal  to  a  living  home, 
And  saw  the  living  faces  go  and  come, 
What  various  minds,  and  in  what  various  moods, 
Crossed  the  fair  paths  of  these  sweet  solitudes! 

Old  gateway,  thou  hast  witnessed  times  of  mirth, 
When  light  the  hunter's  gallop  beat  the  earth ; 
When  thy  quick  wakened  echo  could  hut  know- 
Laughter  and  happy  voices,  and  the  flow 
Of  jocund  spirits,  when  the  pleasant  sight 
Of  broidered  dresses  (careless  youth's  dcliglit) 
Trooped  by  at  sunny  morn,  and  back  at  falling  night. 

And  thou  hast  witnessed  triumph, — when  the  Bride 
Passed  through,  the  stately  Bridegroom  at  her  side  ; 


C!)e  LaUp  of  la  ®arape.  87 

The  village  maidens  scattering  many  a  flower, 

Bright  as  the  bloom  of  living  beauty's  dower, 
With  cheers  and  shouts  that  bid  the  soft  tears  rise 
Of  joy  exultant,  in  her  downcast  eyes. 
And  thou  hadst  gloom,  when, — fallen  from  beauty's 

state, — 
Her  mournful  litter  rustled  through  the  gate. 
And  the  wind  waved  its  branches  as  she  passed, — 
And  the  dishevelled  curls  around  her  cast, 
Eose  on  that  breeze  and  kissed,  before  they  fell, 
The  iron  scroU-work  with  a  wild  farewell  I 

And  thou  hast  heard  sad  dirges  chanted  low, 
And  sobbings  loud  fi'om  those  who  saw  with  woe 
The  feet  borne  forward  by  a  funeral  train, 
Which  homeward  never  might  return  again, 
For  in  the  silence  of  the  frozen  nights 
Reclaim  that  dwelling  and  its  lost  delights ; 
But  lowly  lie,  however  wild  love's  yearning, 
The  dust  that  clothed  them,  unto  dust  returning. 
Through  thee,  how  often  hath  been  borne  away 
Man's  share  of  dual  life — the  senseless  clay ! 
Through  thee,  how  oft  hath  hastened,  glad  and  bold, 


88  CJe  iaUp  of  ta  (Sarape. 

God's  share — the  eager  spirit  in  that  mould ; 
But  neither  life  nor  death  hath  left  a  trace 
On  the  strange  silence  of  that  vacant  place. 

Not  vacant  in  the  day  of  which  I  write ! 
Then  rose  thy  pillared  columns  fair  and  white ; 
Then  floated  out  the  odorous  pleasant  scent 
Of  cultured  shruhs  and  flowers  together  hlent, 
And  o'er  the  trim-kept  gravel's  tawny  hue 
"Warm  fell  the  shadows  and  tlie  brightness  too. 

Count  Claud  is  at  the  gate,  but  not  alone  : 
Who  is  his  friend  ? 

They  pass,  and  both  are  gone. 
Gone,  by  the  bright  warm  path,  to  those  sad  halls 
Where  now  his  slackened  step  in  sadness  falls ; 
Sadness  of  every  day  and  all  day  long, 
Spite  of  the  summer  glow  and  wild-bird's  song. 

Who  is  that  slow-paced  Priest  to  whom  he  bows 
Courteous  precedence,  as  he  sighing  shows 
The  oriel  ^dndow  where  his  Gertrude  dwells, 
And  all  hor  mournful  story  briefly  tells? 


QTbc  laip  cf  la  (Sarape.  89 

Who  is  that  friend  whose  hand  -with  gentle  clasp 
Answers  his  own  young  agonizing  grasp, 
itVnd  looks  upon  his  bui'st  of  passionate  tears 
With  calmer  grieving  of  maturer  years? 

Oh!   well  round  that  friend's  footsteps  might  be 

breathed 
The  blessing  which  the  Italian  poet  wreathed 
Into  a  garland  gay  of  graceful  words 
As  full  of  music  as  a  lute's  low  chords ; 
"Blessed  be  the  year,  the  time,  the  day,  the  hour," 
When  He  passed  through  those  gates,  whose  gentle 

power 
Lifted  with  ministrant  zeal  the  leaden  grief, 
Probed  the  soul's  festering  wounds  and  brought 

relief, 
And  taught  the  sore  vexed  spirits  where  to  find 
Balm  that  could  heal,  and  thoughts  that  cheered 

the  mind. 

Prior  of  Benedictines,  did  thy  prayers 
Bring  down  a  blessing  on  them  unawares, 
WhUe  yet  their  faces  were  to  thee  unknown, 


90  Cn^e  Lalip  of  La  ©arape. 

And  thou  Ts^ert  kneeling  in  thy  cell  alone, 
"Where  thy  meek  litanies  went  up  to  Heaven, 
That  ALL  who  suffered  might  have  comfort  given, 
And  thy  heart  yearned  for  all  thy  fellow-men, 
Smitten  with  sorrows  far  beyond  thy  ken? 

He  sits  by  Gertrude's  couch,  and  patient  listens 

To  her  wild  grieving  voice ; — his  dark  eye  glistens 

"With  tearful  sympathy  for  that  young  wife, 

Telling  the  torture  of  her  broken  life  ; 

And  when  he  answers  her  she  seems  to  know 

The  peace  of  resting  by  a  river's  flow. 

Tender  his  words,  and  eloquently  wise; 

Mild  the  pure  fervor  of  his  watchful  eyes ; 

ileek  with  serenity  of  constant  prayer 

The  luminous  forehead,  high  and  broad  and  bare ; 

The  thin  mouth,  tliough  not  passionless,  yet  still ; 

■With  a  sweet  calm  that  speaks  an  angel's  wUl, 

Resolving  service  to  his  God's  behest. 

And  ever  musing  how  to  serve  Him  best. 

Not  old,  nor  young ;  with  manhood's  gentlest  grace ; 

Pale  to  transparency  the  pensive  face. 

Pale  not  with  sickness,  but  with  studious  thought, 


The  body  tasked,  the  fine  mind  overwrought; 
With  something  faint  and  fragile  in  the  whole, 
As  though  'twere  hut  a  lamp  to  hold  a  souL 
Such  was  the  friend  who  came  to  La  Garaye, 
And  Claud  and  Gertrude  lived  to  bless  the  day  I 

There  is  a  love  that  hath  not  lover's  wooing, 
Love's  wild  caprices,  nor  love's  hot  pursuing ; 
But  yet  a  clinging  and  persistent  love, 
Tenderly  binding,  most  xmaj>t  to  rove ; 
As  full  of  fervent  and  adoring  dreams, 
As  the  more  gross  and  earthlier  passion  seems, 
Put  far  more  single-hearted ;  from  its  bu'th, 
With  humblest  notions  of  unequal  worth  1 
Guided  and  guidable ;  with  thankful  trust ; 
Timid,  lest  all  complaint  should  be  unjust; 
Circling, — a  lesser  orb, — around  its  star 
"With  tributary  love,  that  dare  not  war. 
Such  is  the  love  which  aged  men  inspire ; 
Priests,  whose  pure  hearts  are  full  of  sacred  fire ; 
And  friends  of  dear  friends  dead, — whom  trembling 

we  admire. 
A  touch  of  mystery  lights  the  rising  morn 


92  QT^jc  laJp  of  la  ®arape. 

Of  love  for  those  who  lived  ere  we  were  born ; 
Whose  eyes  the  eyes  of  ancestors  have  seen ; 
Whose  voice  hath  answered  voices  that  have  been; 
Whose  words  show  wisdom  gleaned  in  days  gone  by, 
As  glory  flushes  from  a  sunset  sky. 
Our  judgment  leans  upon  them,  feeling  weak; 
Our  hearts  lift  yearning  towards  them  as  they 

speak, 
And  silently  wo  listen,  lest  we  lose 
Some  teaching  truth,  and  benefits  refuse. 

With  such  a  love  did  Gertrude  learn  to  greet 

The  gentle  Prior ;  whose  slow-pacing  feet 

Each  day  of  her  sad  life  made  welcome  sound 

Across  the  bright  path  of  her  garden  ground. 

And  ere  the  golden  summer  passed  away, 

And  leaves  were  yellowing  with  a  pale  decay ; 

Ere,  drenched  by  sweeping  storms  of  autumn  rain, 

In  turbulent  billows  lay  the  beaten  grain ; 

Ere  Breton  orchards,  ripening,  turn  to  red 

All  the  green  freshness  which  the  spring-time  shed, 

Mocking  the  glory  which  the  sunset  fills 

With  stripes  of  crimson  o'er  the  painted  bills,  — 


(B^t  laH?  of  La  (^arape.  93 

Her  thoughts  submitted  to  his  thoughts'  control, 
As  'twere  an  elder  brother  of  her  soul. 


Well  she  remembered  how  that  soul  was  stirred. 
By  the  rebuking  of  his  gentle  word, 
When  in  her  faltering  tones  complaint  was  given, 
*'  What  had  I  done,  to  earn  such  fate  from  Ueaven  ?" 

"  0,  Lady  1  here  thou  liest,  with  all  that  wealth 
Or  love  can  do  to  cheer  thee  back  to  health ; 
With  books  that  woo  the  fancies  of  thy  brain, 
To  happier  thoughts  than  brooding  over  pain  ; 
With  light,  with  flowers,  with  freshness,  and  with 

food, 
Dainty  and  chosen,  fit  for  sickly  mood ; 
With  easy  couches  for  thy  languid  frame. 
Bringing  real  rest,  and  not  the  empty  name ; 
And  silent  nights,  and  soothed  and  comforted  days ; 
And  Nature's  beauty  spread  before  thy  gaze : — 

"  What  have  the  Poor  done,  who  instead  of  these, 

Suffer  in  foulest  rags  each  dire  disease, 

Creep  on  the  earth,  and  lean  against  the  stones, 


94  dTht  Latip  of  La  (Sarape. 

"When  some  disjointing  torture  racks  their  bones; 
And  groan  and  grope  throughout  the  wearj  night, 
Denied  the  rich  man's  easy  luxury — light? 
What  has  the  Babe  done, — who  with  tender  eyes, 
Blinks  at  the  world  a  little  while,  and  dies, 
Uaving  first  stretched  in  wild  convulsive  leaps 
His  fragile  limbs,  which  ceaseless  suffering  keeps 
In  ceaseless  motion,  tiU  the  hour  when  death 
Clenches  his  little  heart,  and  stops  his  breath  ? 
What  has  the  Idiot  done,  whose  half-formed  sou] 
Scarce  knows  the  seasons  as  they  onward  roll ; 
Wlio  flees  with  gibbering  cries,  and  bleeding  feet, 
From  idle  boys  who  pelt  him  in  the  street? 
What  have  the  fair  girls  done,  whose  eai-ly  bloom 
Wasting  like  flowers  that  pierce  some  creviced 

tomb. 
Plants  that  have  only  known  a  settled  shade, 
Lives  that  for  others'  uses  have  been  made, — 
Toil  on  from  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn, 
For  those  chance  pets  of  Fate,  the  wealthy  born ; 
Bound  not  to  murmur,  and  bound  not  to  sin, 
However  bitter  be  the  bread  they  win  ? 
What  liath  the  Slandered  done,  who  vainly  strives 


Q!^t  labp  of  La  (J^arape.  95 

To  set  his  life  among  untarnished  lives  ? 
Whoso  bitter  crj  for  justice  only  fills 
The  myriad  echoes  lost  among  life's  hills ; 
TVho  hears  for  evermore  the  self-same  lie 
Clank  clog-like  at  his  heel  when  he  would  try 
To  climb  above  the  loathly  creeping  things 
Whose  venom  poisons,  and  whose  fury  stings, 
And  so  slides  back ;  forever  doomed  to  hear 
The  old  Avitch,  Malice,  hiss  with  serpent  leer 
The  old  hard  falsehood  to  the  old  bad  end, 
Helped,  it  may  be,  by  some  traducing  friend. 
Or  one  rocked  with  him  on  one  mother's  breast, — 
Learned  in  the  art  of  where  to  smite  him  best. 

"What  we  must  suffer,  proves  not  what  was  done: 
So  taught  the  God  of  Heaven's  anointed  Son, 
Touching  the  blind  man's  eyes  amid  a  crowd 
Of  ignorant  seething  hearts,  who  cried  aloud. 
The  blind,  or  else  his  parents,  had  offended : 
That  was  Man's  preaching;  God  that  preaching 

mended. 
But  whatsoe'er  we  suffer,  being  stiU 
Fixed  and  appointed  by  the  heavenly  will, 


96  CT^e  Latip  of  la  0arapc. 

Behooves  us  bear  with  patience  as  we  may 
The  Potter's  moulding  of  our  helpless  clay. 
Much,  Lady,  hath  lie  taken,  but  He  leaves 
"What  outweighs  all  for  which  thy  spirit  giieves ; 
Ko  greater  gift  lies  even  in  God's  conti'ol 
Than  the  large  love  that  fills  the  human  soul. 
If,  taking  that,  He  left  thee  all  the  rest, 
"Would  not  vain  anguish  wring  thy  pining  breast? 
If,  taking  all,  that  dear  love  yet  remains. 
Hath  it  not  balm  for  all  thy  bitter  pains? 

"  Oh,  Lady!  there  are  lonely  deaths  that  make 
The  heart  that  thinks  upon  them  burn  and  ache ; 
And  such  I  witnessed  on  the  purple  shore 
"Where  scorched  Vesu%'ius  rears  his  summit  hoar, 
And  Joan's  gaunt  palace,  with  its  skull-like  eyea, 
And  barbarous  and  cruel  memories. 
Forever  sees  the  blue  wave  lap  its  feet, 
And  the  white  glancing  of  the  fishers'  fleet. 
The  death  of  the  Forsaken  1  lone  he  lies, 
His  sultry  noon,  fretted  by  slow  black  flies, 
That  settle  on  pale  cheek  and  quivering  brow 
With  a  soft  torment.    The  increasing  glow 


(E^t  laUp  of  Lb  ^arape.  97 

Brings  the  full  shock  of  day  ;  the  hot  air  grows 

Impui'e  alike  from  action  and  repose ; 

Bruised  fruit,  and  faded  flowers,  and  dung  and  dust, 

The  rich  man's  stew-pan,  and  the  beggar's  crust, 

Poison  the  faint  lips  openiog  hot  and  dry, 

Loathing  the  plague  they  breathe  with  gasping  sigh, 

The  thick  oppression  of  its  stifling  heat. 

The  busy  murmur  of  the  swarming  street, 

The  roH  of  chariots  and  the  rush  of  feet ; 

With  the  tormenting  music's  nasal  twang 

Distorting  melodies  his  loved  ones  sang  I 

"  Then  comes  a  change — not  silence,  but  less  souiid, 

Less  echo  of  hard  footsteps  on  the  ground, 

Less  rolling  thunder  of  vociferous  words. 

As  though  the  clang  struck  out  in  crashing  chords 

Fell  into  single  notes,  that  promise  rest 

To  the  wild  fever  of  the  laboring  breast. 

"Last  cometh  on  the  night — the  hot,  bad  niglit, 
With  less  of  aU — of  heat,  of  dust,  of  light; 
And  leaves  him  watching,  with  a  helpless  stare, — 
The  theme  of  no  one's  hope  and  no  one's  care  1 


98  CTic  laUp  of  La  (Sarape, 

The  cresset  lamp,  that  stands  so  grim  and  tall, 
Widens  and  wavers  on  the  upper  ■wall ; 
And  calming  down  from  day's  perpetual  storm, 
His  thoughts'  dark  chaos  takes  some  certain  form, 
And  he  begins  to  pine  for  joys  long  lost, 
Or  hopes  um-ealized  ; — till  bruised  and  tost 
He  sends  his  soul  vain  journeys  through  the  gloom 
For  radiant  eyes  that  should  have  wept  his  doom. 
T'hen  clasps  his  hands  in  prayer,  and  for  a  time. 
Gives  aspirations  unto  things  sublime : 
But  sinking  to  some  speck  of  sorrow  found, 
Some  point  which,  like  a  little  festering  wound, 
Holds  all  his  share  of  pain, — he  gazes  round, 
Seeking  some  vanished  form,  some  hand  whose  touch 
"Would  almost  cure  him ;  and  he  yearns  so  much, 
That  passionate  painful  sobs  his  breathing  choke, 
And  the  thin  bubble  of  his  dream  hath  broke  1 

"  So,  still  again ;  and  all  alone  again ; 
Not  even  a  vision  present  w  ith  his  pain. 
The  hot  real  round  him ;  the  forsaken  bed ; 
The  tumbled  pillow  and  the  restless  head. 
The  drink  so  near  his  couch,  and  yet  too  fcr 


QTlje  LaUp  of  La  ^arape.  99 

For  foeble  hands  to  reach ;  the  cold  fine  star 
That  glitters  through  the  unblinded  Avindow-pauo, 
And  with  slow  gliding  leaves  it  blank  again ; 
Till  morning  flushing  through  the  world  once  more, 
Brings  the  dull  likeness  of  the  day  before, — 
The  first  vague  freshness  of  new  wings  unfurled, 
As  though  Hope  lighted,  somewliere,  in  the  world 
The  heat  of  noon ;  the  fading  down  of  light; 
The  glimmering  evening,  and  the  restless  night. 
And  then  again  the  morning; — and  the  noon; 
The  evening  and  the  morning; — till  a  boon 
Of  double  weakness  sinks  him,  and  he  knows 
One  or  two  other  days  shall  end  his  woes; 
One  or  two  mournful  evenings,  glimmering  gray, 
One  or  two  hopeless  risings  of  new  day. 
One  or  two  noons  too  weak  to  brush  off  flies, 
One  or  two  nights  of  flickering  feeble  sighs. 
One  or  two  shivering  breaks  of  helpless  tears, 
One  or  two  yearnings  for  forgotten  years, — 
And  then  the  end  of  all,  then  the  great  change, 
When  the  freed  soul,  let  loose  at  length  to  rnnge. 
Leaves  the  imprisoning  and  imprisoned  clay, 
And  soars  far  out  of  reach  of  sorrow  and  decay  I" 


100  C|)e  LaUp  of  La  ^arapr. 

Then  Claud,  who  watched  the  faint  and  pitying  fluah 

Tint  her  transparent  cheek,  with  sudden  gush 

Of  manly  ardor  spoke  of  soldier  deaths  ; 

Of  scattered  slain  who  lay  on  cold  bleak  heaths ; 

Of  prisoners  pining  for  their  native  land 

After  the  battle's  vain  and  desperate  stand ; 

Brave    hearts    in    dungeons, — rusting    like   their 

swords ; 
And  wounded  men, — midst  whom  the  rifling  hordes 
Of  spoU-desii'ing  searchers  crept  and  smote, — 
■Who  vainly  heard  the  rallying  bugle's  note, 
Or  the  quick  march  of  their  companions  pass  ; 
Sunk,  dumb  and  dying,  on  the  trami)led  grass. 

Then  also,  the  meek  anxious  Prior  told 

Of  war's  worst  horrors, — when  in  freezing  cold, 

Or  in  the  torrid  heat,  men  lay  and  groaned. 

With  none  to  hear  or  heed  them  when  they  moaned  ; 

Or,  with  half-help, — borne  in  a  comrade's  arms 

To  where,  all  huddled  up  in  feverish  swarms. 

The  d}TUg  numbers  mocked  the  scanty  skill 

Of  wearied  surgeons, — crowding,  crowding  still 

With  different  small  degrees  of  lingering  breath. 


CTbe  LaJp  of  La  (Sarapc  101 

Asking  for  instant  aid,  or  choked  in  death. 
Order,  and  cleanliness,  and  thought,  and  care, 
The  hush  of  quiet,  or  the  sound  of  prayer. 
These  things  were  not : — nor,  from  the  exhausted 

store, 
Medicines  and  halms,  to  help  the  ti'ouhling  sore ; 
Nor  soft  cool  lint,  like  dew  on  parched-up  ground, 
Clothing  the  weary,  hurning,  festering  wound ; 
Nor  delicate  linen ;  nor  fresh  cooling  drinks 
To  woo  the  fever-cracking  lip,  which  shrinks 
Even  from  such  solace ;  nor  the  presence  blest 
Of  holy  women  watching  broken  rest. 
And  gliding  past  them  through  the  wakeful  night, 
Like  her  whose  Shadow  made  the  soldier's  light.' 

And  as  the  three  discoursed  of  things  like  these, 
Sweet  Gertrude  felt  her  mind  grow  ill  at  ease. 
The  words  of  Claud, — that  God  took  what  was 

given, 
To  teacli  their  hearts  to  turn  from  earth  to  heaven  ; 
The  Prior's  words,  of  tender  mild  appeal, 
Teaching  her  how  for  others'  woes  to  feel ; 
Weighed  on  her  heart ;  till  all  the  past  life  seemed 


102  C|)c  LaUP  of  la  Oarapt. 

Thankless  and  thonglitless :  and  tlie  lady  dreamed 
Of  succor  to  the  helpless,  and  of  deeds 
Pious  and  merciful,  whose  heauty  breeds 
Good  deeds  in  others,  copying  what  is  done, 
And  ending  all  by  earnest  thought  begun. 

Not  idly  dreamed.    Where  once  the  shifting  throng 
Of  merry  playmates  met,  with  dance  and  song, — 
Long  rows  of  simple  beds  the  place  proclaim 
A  Hospital,  in  all  things  but  the  name. 
In  that  same  castle  where  the  lavish  feast 
Lay  spread,  that  fatal  night,  for  many  a  guest, 
The  sickly  poor  are  fed !     Beneath  that  porch 
"Where  Claud  shed  tears  that  seemed  the  lids  to 

scorch, 
Seeing  her  broken  beauty  carried  by 
Like  a  crushed  flower  that  now  has  but  to  die, 
The  self-same  Claud  now  stands  and  helps  to  guide 
Some  ragged  wretch  to  rest  and  warmtli  inside. 
But  most  to  those,  the  hopeless  ones,  on  whom. 
Early  or  late,  her  own  sad  spoken  doom 
Hath  been  pronounced — the  Incurables — she  spends 
Her  lavish  pity,  and  their  couch  attends. 


Qri)e  Lafip  of  la  0arape.  103 

Her  home  is  made  their  home ;  her  wealth  their 

dole; 
Her  busy  courtyard  hears  no  more  the  roll 
Of  gilded  vehicles,  or  pawing  steeds, 
But  feeble  steps  of  those  whose  bitter  needs 
Are  their  sole  passport    Through  that  gateway 

press 
All  varying  forms  of  sickness  and  distress, 
And  many  a  poor  worn  face  that  hatb  not  smiled 
For  years, — and  many  a  feebled  crippled  child, 
Blesses  the  tall  white  portal  where  they  stand, 
And  the  dear  Lady  of  the  liber-il  hand. 

Not  in  a  day  such  happy  change  was  brought: 
Not  in  a  day  the  works  of  mercy  wrought : 
But  in  God's  gradual  time.    As  Winter's  chain 
Melts  from  the  earth  and  leaves  it  green  again ; 
As  the  fresh  bud  a  crimsoning  beauty  shows 
From  the  black  briers  of  a  last  year's  rose ; 
So  the  full  season  of  her  love  matures, 
And  her  one  illness  breeds  a  thousand  cures. 
Her  soft  eyes  looking  into  other  eyes. 
Bleared,  and  defaced  to  blinding  cavities, 


104  C|)e  latp  of  La  (3arapf. 

"Weary  not  in  their  task ;  nor  turn  away 

With  a  sick  loathing  from  their  glimmering  ray. 

Her  small  white  comforting  hand, — no  longer  hid 

In  pearl-embroidered  gauntlet, — ^ILfts  the  lid 

Outworn  with  labor  in  the  bitter  fields, 

And  with  a  tender  skill  some  healing  yields ; 

Bathes  the  swollen  redness, — shades  unwelcome 

light,- 
And  into  morning  turns  their  threatening  night. 

And  Olaud,  her  eager  Claud,  with  fervent  heart, 
Earnest  in  all  things,  nobly  does  his  part ; 
His  high  intelligence  hath  mastered  much 
That  balBed  science :  with  a  surgeon's  touch 
He  treats, — himself, — the  hurts  from  many  a  wound, 
And,  by  deep  study,  novel  cures  hath  found. 
But  good  and  frank  and  simple  he  remains, 
Though  a  King's  notice  lauds  successful  pains; 
And,  echoing  through  his  grateful  country,  fame 
Sends  to  far  nations  noble  Garaye's  name.' 
Oh !  loved  and  reverenced  long  that  name  shall  be, 
Though,  crumbled  on  the  soU  of  Brittany, 
N"©  stone,  at  ast,  of  that  pale  Kuin  shows 


QTbe  La5p  of  La  (^arape.  105 

Where  stocd  the  gateway  of  his  joys  and  woes. 
For,  in  the  Breton  town,  the  good  deeds  done 
Yield  a  fresh  harvest  still,  from  sire  to  son ; 
Still  thrives  the  noble  Hospital  that  gave 
Shelter  to  those  whom  none  from  pain  could  save  ; 
Still  to  the  Schools  the  ancient  chiraLug  clock 
Calls  the  poor  yeanlings  of  a  simple  flock ; 
Still  the  calm  Eefnge  for  the  fallen  and  lost 
("Whom  love  a  bUght  and  not  a  blessing  crost,) 
Sends  out  a  voice  to  woo  the  grieving  breast — 
Come  unto  me,  ye  weary,  and  find  rest  1 
And  still  the  gentie  Nurses, — vowed  to  give 
Their  aid  to  all  who  suffer  and  yet  live, — 
Go  forth  in  snow-white  cap  and  sable  gown, 
Tending  the  sick  and  hungry  in  the  town. 
And  show  dim  pictures  on  their  quiet  walls 
Of  those  who  dwelt  in  Garaye's  ruined  halls  I 


m  pity  0{  p  mxmjt. 

OONOLTJSION. 

EACE  to    their   ashes!      Far    away 
they  lie, 
Among  their  poor,  beneath  the  equal 

Bky,— 
Among  their  poor,  who  blessed  them 
ere  they  went 
For  all  the  loving  help  and  calm  content. 
Oh !  happy  beings,  who  have  gone  to  hear 
*'  Well  done,  ye  faithful  servants,"  sounding  clear; 
How  easy  all  your  virtues  to  admire  I 
How  hard,  alas  I  to  copy  and  aspire  I 

Servant  of  God,  well  done !    They  serve  God  well, 
Who  serve  his  creatures :  when  the  funeral  beU 


108  C()e  LaUp  of  la.  0axayt, 

Tolls  for  the  dead,  there's  nothing  left  of  all 
Tliat  decks  the  scutcheon  and  the  velvet  pall 
Save  this.     The  coronet  is  empty  show : 
The  strength  and  loveliness  are  hid  helow: 
The  shifting  wealth  to  others  hath  accrued : 
And  learning  cheers  not  the  grave's  solitude : 
What's  DONE,  is  what  remains !    Ah,  blessed  thej 
Who  leave  completed  tasks  of  love  to  stay 
And  answer  mutely  for  them,  being  dead : 
Life  was  not  pm-poseless,  though  Life  be  fled. 
Even  as  I  vrrite,  before  me  seem  to  rise, 
Like  stars  in  darkness,  well-remembered  eyes 
Whose  light  but  lately  shone  on  earth's  endeavor, 
Now  vanished  from  this  troubled  world  forever. 
Oh !  missed  and  mourned  by  many, — ^I  being  one,— 
Heebeet,  not  vainly  thy  career  was  run  ; 
Nor  shall  Death's  shadow,  and  the  folding  sliroud, 
Veil  from  the  future  yeai's  thy  worth  allowed. 
Since  all  thy  life  thy  single  hope  and  aim 
Was  to  do  good, — not  make  thyself  a  name, — 
'Tis  fit  that  by  the  good  remauiing  yet, 
Thy  name  be  one  men  never  can  forget. 
Oh  1  eyes  I  fii'st  knew  in  our  mutual  youth. 


QTI^e  Lalip  of  La  (^arape.  109 

So  full  of  limpid  eoi'uestness  and  truth  ; 
Ejes  I  saw  fading  still,  as  day  by  day 
The  body,  not  the  spu'it's  strength,  gave  way  ; 
Eyes  that  I  last  saw  lifting  their  farewell 
To  the  now  darkened  windows  where  I  dwell, — 
And  wondered,  as  I  stood  there  sadly  gazing, 
If  Death  were  brooding  in  their  faint  upraising ; 
If  never  more  thy  footstep  light  should  cross 
My  thi-eshold  stone — but  friends  bewail  thy  loss, 
And  She  be  widowed  young,  who  lonely  trains 
Children  that  boast  tiiy  good  blood  in  their  veins ; 
Fair  eyes, — your  light  was  quenched  while  men 

still  thought 
To  see  those  tasks  to  full  perfection  brought  1 
But  Good  is  not  a  shapely  mass  of  stone, 
Hewn  by  man's  hands  and  worked  by  him  alone ; 
It  is  a  seed  God  suffers  One  to  sow, — 
Many  to  reap ;  and  when  the  harvests  grow, 
God  giveth  increase  through  all  coming  years, — 
And  lets  us  reap  in  joy,  seed  that  was  sown  in  tears. 

Brave  heart  I  true  soldier's  son ;  set  at  thy  post, 
Deserting  not  tiU  life  itself  was  lost ; 


110  d)c  taUp  of  la  ©arapi?. 

Thou  faithful  sentinel  for  others'  weal, 
Clad  in  a  surer  panoply  than  steel, 
A  resolute  purpose, — sleep,  as  heroes  sleep, — 
Slain,  but  not  conquered  I     We  thy  loss  must  weep, 
And  while  our  sight  the  mist  of  sorrow  dims, 
Feel  all  these  comforting  words  lie  down  like  hyums 
Hushed  after  service  in  cathedral  walls ; 
But  proudly  on  thy  name  thy  country  calls, 
By  thee  raised  higher  than  the  highest  place 
Yet  won  by  any  of  thy  ancient  race. 
Be  thy  sons  like  thee !    Sadly  as  I  bend 
Above  the  page,  I  write  thy  name,  lost  friend  I 
"With  a  friend's  name  this  bi'ief  book  did  begin, 
And  a  friend's  name  shall  end  it :  names  that  win 
Happy  remembrance  from  the  great  and  good ; 
Names  that  shall  sink  not  in  oblivion's  flood, 
But  with  clear  music,  like  a  church-bell's  chime, 
Sound  through  the  river's  sweep  of  onward  rush- 
ing Time  I 


NOTES. 

Note  1,  page  101,  lino  13. 

*'Z£kf  ier  tohoM  Shadow  made  tlie  soldier' a  light.'' 

ERT  sure  I  am  tliat  the  great  American 
poet,  LoNGFELLO"w,  would  not  refuse 
me  permission  to  append  here,  in  lieu  of 
any  note  of  explanation,  his  own  beau- 
tiful lines  on  Miss  Nightingale,  aUuding 

to  the  anecdote  of  a  dying  soldier  pressing  his  lips  to 

her  shadow  on  the  wall. 

SANTA  FILOMENA. 

From  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  ■wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise. 

To  higher  levels  rise. 


112  JBoteK. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  soula 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Baise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thouglit  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp— 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 

In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain. 
The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  I  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufi'erer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 


BoUe,  lis 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  slioxild  be 
Opened,  and  then  closed  suddenly, 

The  vision  came  and  went, 

The  light  shown  and  was  spent. 

On  Enj^land's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portds  of  the  past. 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  histoiy  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Not  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  FiLOMENA  bore. 


Note  2,  page  104, 18th  line. 
"Sends  to  far  nations  noble  Gca'aye's  namey 
I  extract  tliis  note  from  the  work  of  M.  Odorici 
wliicli  I  mentioned  in  my  Introduction. 

"  Parmi  Ics  d^couvertes  licureuses  ct  iit'les  qne  M.  de 
III  Garaye  fit  dans  ses  experiences  chimiriues,  nous  citerona 
particulierement  ce  qu'ii  noinmait  les  sels  essentiels,  tires 
des  vdg^taux  et  des  mimSiaux  au  moyen  de  I'oan  mise  en 


114  l^otefl. 

monvement  sans  I'aide  du  feu  ni  d'aucnn  autre  agent 
m^caniquo.  Ces  sela  renfcrmant  les  priiicipes  Ics  plus 
actifa,  fouruirent  des  remddes  salutaircs  ct  jusqu'alora 
musitds. 

"Lanouvelle  dc  cetto  decouverto  pflrvint  aux  oreilles 
u  Eoi  ct  cxcita  la  libdralitd  de  S.  M.,  dont  lo  coeur  coiii- 
patissant  ne  se  dcmentit  jamais.  Lc  Eoi  voulut  quo  cc3 
secrets,  trouvds  et  distribuds  pour  ainsi  diro  dans  lo 
silence,  fussent  rendus  publics  et  que  les  bienfaits  qui 
devaicnt  eu  rdsulter  pussent  se  rdpandre  dans  toutes  Ics 
classes. 

"Louis  XV.  lo  manda  expres  h  Marly  en  1731,  et, 
apres  diverges  experiences  faites  devant  phisieurs  person- 
nages,  lo  Roi,  pour  temoigner  au  comto  de  la  Garayo  sa 
satisfaction  touto  particuliere,  lui  fit  compter  50,000  livrcs, 
qui  tourucreut  au  profit  des  pauvres  et  de  la  science. 

"  Plus  tard  lo  Eoi  lui  envoya  son  portrait  ct  celui  dc  la 
Eeine,  avec  25,000  livrcs  pour  une  secoudo  dccouvertc ; 
plusieurs  grands  seigneurs,  les  princes  du  sang,  et  entro 
autres  lo  savant  et  trop  calomnid  due  d'Orldans,  lui  dcri- 
virent  des  lettrcs  do  felicitations,  ct  I'imprimour  J  -B. 
Coignard  publia  du  comto  de  la  Garayo,  uu  mdmoiro  in- 
titule :  Chimie  JiJ/draulique. 

'*  Ainid  ct  liouorc  du  Eoi,  il  fut  cred  et  1725  chevalier 
do  I'Ordrc  royal  ct  militaire  dc  Notre- Dume-da-Mont- 
Carmel  et  de  Saint- Lazare-dc-Jervsalem.  En  1729,  Mgr. 
le  due  d'Orldans  I'dleva  h,  la  digiiitd  de  Grand-Bospiialier 
(Commandeur)  de  co  memo  crdro  pour  la  province  de  Bre- 
tague. 

"  En  1746,  le  jeune  ducde  Penthidvre,  aocompagnd  du 


jQoU*.  115 

marquis  de  Saint-Pern,  etant  venu  pour  prdsider  les  Etats 
de  Bretagne,  lui  fit  I'honnonr  de  le  visiter  i  la  Garaye, 
d'y  passer  trois  jours  et  de  partagcr  avec  lui  les  occiipa- 
tious  d'infirmicr,  objct  de  sa  plus  tendre  soUicituJc." 

A  curious  pliase  of  life,  in  a  man  who  began  liia 
career  as  a  gay  young  officer.  He  greatly  distinguished 
himself  at  the  siege  of  Namur,  and  was  a  brave  and 
gallant  soldier. 


/I/? 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


3  1205  02087  5660 

UCSOUTHERN_REGION_ALUBBARYF/^^^^ 


A  A         001  423  331  6 


